That mind was teeming. For her this was a moment of triumph, of exultation. As she had told Clifford, with her cool directness, she had analyzed herself, and had decided that she was a worldling, and, moreover, she knew herself a competent worldling. The things in life that to her were worth while were luxury, admiration, the pleasures that money could buy. She had dreamed this dream--and here was her dream come true! Her quickened eyes, with a new sense, swiftly took in this great room, decorated in gold and black and with hangings of a kingly blue brocade, and with smartly dressed people at the tables or swinging in alluring rhythm in the latest dances. After the studied maneuvers, and sometimes necessary seclusion of life with her uncle, all this gayety, and richness, and freedom, warmed the heart of her desire. All this was now hers!--hers whenever she wished it! It was as if golden doors had swung open. From her subconscious mind these two magic words had emerged to the very forefront of her thought, had become a mental figure of speech which she concretely visualized as a glorious structure which almost existed--Golden Doors!... Clifford, watching that rapt face, hardly noted that Jack had sighted him and was bearing down upon him until Jack seized him by the shoulder and dragged him over to where Mary sat. “Look who’s here, Mary,--almost my bridesmaid!” Jack cried gayly. “Sit down, Clifford,” pressing Clifford into a chair and reseating himself. “Now, come across with congratulations!” Clifford tried to restrain all personal feeling from his tone, and to speak lightly. “I can’t do better than to say what’s always said--that I hope marriage is going to make a real man out of you.” “Oh, you do! And I suppose”--with joyous acerbity--“that that’s what you’re wishing for Mary--that it’ll make a real woman out of her!” Clifford still tried to speak easily. “Honestly, now, could one make a better wish for a woman than that she should never be anybody else but her best self?” Mary met his gaze steadily. On his side he tried to look, and feel, the part of one who is no more than a casual friend--but, despite his effort at this detached rôle, he could not help guessing at just what was going on behind that calm face. “You’ve got a thought on your chest,” remarked Jack. “Better cough it up.” “I am merely feeling a bit surprised at seeing you back again.” “Surprised? Why?” “I imagined you’d stay away for a while.” “I’ve had enough of the St. Helena life--and so has Mary. New York’s the only place!” “Where are you going to live?” “Right here at the Grantham. That is, till we like something better.” “Then you are registered here?” pursued Clifford. “Not I. Mary is, since she’s been living here. I was just going to have my things sent over from the Biltmore, and then register with the special hotel pen, which has two ink drops that flow as one.”