She woke to a rush of thought—the thought that her name was “Ruby” and that she was more glad of that than she ever had been of anything else. Charles called her “Ruby” almost as often as he did “Ivy.” What a pale insipid name “Ivy” was—a silly name. Why hadn’t they called her only “Ruby”? Oh, the shame and the pain of it all! To have given her love unasked, unsought, unwanted! And to a man of a debarred race! But why? Why was it debarred? Did he know? Did he suspect it? Had she told him? She shivered down in her warm bed and closed her miserable eyes—ashamed to have even the daylight see her. How was she to face Emma and Charlie—_and_ Sên King-lo? He must never know. Whatever he believed now, led to by her, she must convince him that he had made an absurd mistake. She would. At breakfast Sir Charles smiled affectionately at her, glad to see her so happy and full of fun, and the Duke chuckled more than once. Marie should ask her to stay with them when the Snows came home, and if Rupert fell in love with her—who cared? Not Rupert’s father. Not he! But Emma, watching and listening, grew grave at heart, and her eyes were anxious though her lips smiled. How Charlie would hate it! Her poor Charlie! If only they’d left Ivy at home in England! For Lady Snow knew what neither Ivy nor Sên King-lo did and had little doubt of how it would end. But she feared that in the meantime Ivy was going to be very ill. The girl was drinking too much coffee, and she was forcing herself to eat. All day Ivy listened for a voice and a footstep. She longed not to see Sên King-lo again. But her pride told her she must; and, more than she wished not to face him again, she longed to do so and get it well over. She’d carry her head high to the last. And she’d find an excuse to go back to England after Easter. She never had promised to stay with Emma and Charles forever. Whatever she’d do there, however she’d contrive to live there, she did not know. But that did not matter. Sên King-lo did not come that day. But he sent flowers in his stead—although he had sent her some only yesterday. Today—for the first time since he _had_ sent them—he sent her no lilies. When Ivy opened the florist’s box it held only roses—deep-scented, red roses the color of rubies. Ivy tucked two or three in her belt; it would look less strange, perhaps, to Sên, if he came, than if she did not, she thought. She and Lady Snow lunched alone that day, and Emma wondered who had sent those roses—but didn’t ask or look at them particularly. But at dinner the Duke had no such scruple. “You have changed your flowers,” he remarked. “I thought you always wore lilies-of-the-valley.” “Not always. A friend gives me lilies sometimes.” “Rather often,” the Duke observed slyly. “I bought my red roses,” Ivy continued, “and I paid dear for them.” “Flowers are a scandalous price in winter,” the Duke agreed. “These were!” Ivy laughed.