She had driven into the town with Miss Clergy beside her, quite content as long as Thurley was satisfied, Thurley in a startling gown of mulberry chiffon and a jet toque and her driver in a trig green uniform to match the body of the limousine. The word spread like fire, “Thurley Precore is back, grand as a princess, famous as all outdoors—paint on her cheeks—Miss Clergy is human—it _is_ so, all they’ve said about ’em—watch Dan Birge, sore’n a hedgehog, watch ’Raine—there’ll be doings if she stays.” There was no attempt at actually refurnishing the Fincherie, but only to let sun stream in and soap and water do its best. A piano was the only added asset save the motor cars, the lady’s maid and Thurley’s accompanist. Thurley preferred to have the contrast of old style furniture, and Miss Clergy wandered vaguely like a lost child through the rooms, smiling with delight at the memories such and such a table or chair recalled; she even pointed to where she had danced the businesslike little polka at her coming out party. But when Thurley came face to face with Betsey, Hopeful or Ali Baba, all trace of the sophisticated young woman vanished and she flew into their arms in such natural fashion that they afterwards said in stout defense of her, “Thurley ain’t changed a mite—unless people act changed to her!” Nevertheless there was a change. No one can go away from a village as a runaway beggar girl taking the town mystery and richest person in it at the same time and leave a broken heart to keep green her memory, without somewhat of a readjustment. Nor can she return three years later both famous and rich and lovelier than ever without further complications. The homey things which Thurley had anticipated would set her right in magic fashion irritated and disappointed her. She wanted to return the same wild rose she had left, being treated as such. But her grandeur was like a stone wall over which the village took turns at peeking and saying, “Well, well, well, so this is Thurley Precore—well, well, _well_!” Twelve hours after she had come into the town she was bored to extinction. She missed the excitement of her other life and wondered why she had not stayed on to do the things society had begged of her. Birge’s Corners was as removed from the real world as Iceland from the tropics, they did not appreciate or comprehend her! She was still just a “lucky girl” in their eyes; they almost questioned her success. She would have to die and leave funds for a public drinking fountain before the village would acclaim her as their own with joy and alacrity.