Not one imbecile male look; not one feminine sneer! Nothing! No fame! "What's the matter?" asked Monty in alarm. Grace felt an overwhelming desire to stand there until the people looked, even if it took a year. As the century-long seconds passed she barely could resist the impulse to shout, "Fire!" "Anything wrong?" whispered Monty, with real concern. "N-no-nothing!" she stammered, and followed Ruth, who had passed her, unnoticing. Her color returned as wrath dispelled amazement. For the first time since H. R. began to woo her in public places with sandwiches Grace Goodchild actually had to eat food in a restaurant. In New York famous people don't go to restaurants to eat. She was distraite throughout the luncheon. She thought Monty was an ass. And the other feeding beasts must have read the New York papers! There was absolutely no excuse. In the evening the same thing happened. That is, nothing happened. The Fiddles' friends tried to be particularly nice to her by talking of the opera, novels, the dancing-craze, the resurgence of the Republican party, and cubism. It only made it worse. And not one knew the Rutgers Roll! The next day Ruth and the young men took her to the Philadelphia Country Club. Same thing! And later to a dance at the Fitz-Marlton. Ditto! Her good looks, her gowns, and her nice manners made a very favorable impression on all of Ruth's friends, male and female, young and old. Hang 'em, that's all it did! It was like Lucullus being asked to eat sanitary biscuits. She had wanted peace. But not in a burial crypt. On the fourth day of extinction she said to Ruth after breakfast: "My dear, I must return to New York!" "Oh no! Grace, darling, I've accepted seventeen--" "I must, Ruth. I simply must!" "But Monty is coming at one to take us to his father's--" Grace felt like saying that Monty could take himself to Hades or to Atlantic City. But she merely shook her head. She dared not trust herself to speak. Ruth appealed to her mother. But Mrs. Fiddle shrugged her shoulders and said: "No use! New York!" She herself was a Van Duzen. And so Grace Goodchild returned home, five days before she was expected. "I couldn't stand it, mother," she explained, almost tearfully. "Very well," said Mrs. Goodchild. What else can a mother say in New York? And isn't it right to stand by your own flesh and blood? Grace hesitated, full of perplexities and unformulated doubts and an exasperating sense of indecision. She felt like opening the book of her soul to other eyes. To hear advice or, at least, opinions. "I want to have a heart-to-heart talk with you, mother," said Grace, hesitatingly. Then she apologized, self-defensively. "It concerns my future, dear."