John Ducane, a friend and colleague of Octavian's, was a frequent week-end visitor. 'Casie, would you mind doing the room after tea?' 'Of course I mind,' said Casie, 'in my one bit of free time; what you mean is will I, yes I will.' At that moment Kate Gray came into the kitchen, followed by Mingo, and at once as if struck by some piercing stellar ray the scene dissolved into its atoms and reassembled itself round Kate as centre. Mary saw, pinioned in some line of force, Paula's keen smiling dog face, felt her own face lift and smile, her hair tossed, blown back. Mingo was barking, Montrose had jumped on to the table, Casie was pouring more hot water into the pot, the twins, disarranging their careful line of stones, were both chattering at once, fastening brown sandy hands on to the belt of Kate's striped dress. Kate's bright round face beamed at them all out of the golden fuzz of her hair. Her warm untidy being emphasized the sleekness, the thinness, the compactness of the other two, Mary with her straight dark hair tucked behind her ears and her air of a Victorian governess, Paula with her narrow head and pointed face and the well adjusted surfaces of her cropped brown hair. Kate, herself undefined, was a definer of others, the noise, the heat, the light which flattered them into the clearer contours of themselves. Kate spoke with a slight stammer and a slight Irish accent. 'Octavian isn't coming tonight after all.' 'Oh dear,' said Mary, 'he won't be here for Barb.' 'I know, it's too bad. Something's happened at the office.' 'What's happened?' 'Some chap killed himself.' 'Good heavens,' said Paula. 'You mean killed himself, there in the office? T 'Yes. Isn't it awful?' 'Who was he?' said Paula. 'I don't know.'