With these thoughts whirling in her brain and troubling it, the girl fell asleep at last. Although she did not know it nor suspect it, she was never again to wake exactly the same person as she had been. She did not realize that her unconscious antagonism to Mary's words sprang from one cause alone, that a process had begun in her which was to lead her into other paths and new experiences. She did not know that, at last, for the first time in her bright, careless life, conscience was awake. It was not till nearly nine o'clock that she awoke. Antoinette had peeped into the bedroom several times. When at length the maid brought the dainty porcelain cup of chocolate, a bright sun was pouring into the room through the apricot-colored silk curtains. Marjorie did not immediately remember the events and her sensations of the night before. When she did so, they all came back in a sudden flash of memory. "Antoinette," she said quickly, "find Mrs. Summers"--Lady Kirwan's maid--"and ask if I can come to mamma's room at once." In a minute the maid returned. "M'lady is nearly dressed, mademoiselle," she said. "Elle sera bien contente de voir mademoiselle toute de suite." Slipping on a dressing-gown and fur slippers, Marjorie went to her mother's room immediately. She was bursting with eagerness and anxiety to tell her the news. She was not in the least ill-natured or small-minded. She had not the least wish to "tell tales." But she was genuinely and seriously alarmed about her beloved cousin's future. She found Lady Kirwan already dressed and sitting in her boudoir. The elder lady wore a face of utter consternation, and her daughter saw at once that there was little she could tell her. Mrs. Summers, an elderly, confidential maid, was in the room, and there was a pile of morning papers upon the writing-table. Nothing that went on in Berkeley Square ever escaped the discreet Summers. She was perfectly aware of Mary's late arrival, and that she had come without any luggage. When Mary had been put to bed, she had found out from Antoinette all that the French girl could tell her. And the morning journals, which Mrs. Summers generally looked over before taking them to her mistress, supplied the rest. All London was at this moment ringing with the news of what had happened at the Frivolity Theatre the night before. There had been several daily journalists among the audience, and plenty of other people either directly connected with, or, at any rate, in touch with, the Press. The news eclipsed everything else. There were columns of description, rumor and report. Those who had actually been present had gone straight to the offices of their papers while still under the influence of the tremendous scene they had witnessed. Joseph was in nearly every case identified with the hero of the strange episodes on the Welsh Hills as exclusively reported in the _Daily Wire_ special of the day before. But the wildest rumors and conjectures filled the papers.