"Are you afraid, child, he will break off the engagement?" was all that Mrs. Potten said, and then the horrid old woman asked all sorts of horrid questions, and wormed out all kinds of things: that the Warden had not actually said he was in love, that he had scarcely spoken to her for three days, and that he had not said "good-bye" that morning when he left for London. How Mrs. Potten had managed to sneak it out of her Gwendolen did not know, but Mrs. Potten gave her no time to think of what she was saying, and being so much upset and so much afraid of Mrs. Potten lots of things came out. And yet all the time she knew things were going wrong because of the wicked look on Mrs. Potten's face. However, Gwendolen had all through stuck to it (and it was the truth) that she had never intended to do more than "sort of joke" with the note, and this Mrs. Potten simply wouldn't understand. And when she, Gwendolen, promised, on her honour, to make it "all right," by wiring to her mother to send her a postal order for ten shillings by return, Mrs. Potten sprang like a tiger on her: "Why wire for it? Why not return it now?" Oh, the whole thing was awful! After this Mrs. Potten's voice had changed to ice, and she put on a perfectly beastly tone. "Gwendolen, you shock me beyond words, and oblige me to take a very decided step in the matter." Then she stopped, and Gwendolen could recall that horrible moment of suspense. Then came words that made Gwendolen shudder to think of. "I have a very great respect for the position of a Warden--it is a position of trust; and I have also personally a very great respect for the Warden of King's. I give you an alternative. Break off your engagement with him at once, quietly, or I shall make this little affair of the note known in Oxford, so that the Warden will have to break the engagement off. Which alternative do you choose?" The very words repeated themselves over and over in Gwendolen's memory, and she flung herself on her bed and gave way to a passion of tears. No, she would never forgive Mrs. Potten. When the bell sounded for dinner, Gwendolen struggled off the bed and went to look at herself in the glass. She couldn't possibly go downstairs looking like that, even if she were dressed. Yet pangs of hunger seized Gwendolen. She had eaten one wretched little slice of bread and butter at Potten End, moistening it with her tears, and now she wanted food. Several minutes passed. "They won't care even if I'm dead," moaned Gwendolen, and she listened. A knock came at her door, and Louise entered. "If mademoiselle has a headache would she like to have some dinner brought up to her?" "Yes, thanks," said Gwendolen, and she kept her face away from the direction of the door so that Louise could not see it. "What would mademoiselle like? Some soup?" Oh, how wretched it all was! And when all might have been so different! And soup--only soup! "I don't care," said Gwendolen, "some sort of dinner--any dinner."