And Stephanie, lying on her bed in her own room, twisted her body in anguish and, hands clenched, buried her face in her arms. Helen, returning an hour later, and glancing into Stephanie’s bed-room as she passed, saw the girl lying there. "I thought you were motoring!" she exclaimed. "The car is laid up," said Stephanie, in a muffled voice. "Oh. Don’t you feel well, Steve?" "N-not very." "Can I do anything? Wait a moment——" She continued on to her bed-room, unpinned her hat, drew on her working smock, and came slowly back, buttoning it. "What’s wrong, Steve?" she inquired. "Nothing," said the girl, drearily. "I’m just—tired." "Why—you’ve been crying!" murmured Helen, bending over her. "What is making you so unhappy, Steve? Don’t you wish to tell me?" "N-no." "Shall I sit here by you, dear? I can work this afternoon——" "No.... It’s nothing at all—truly it isn’t." "Had you rather be alone?" "Yes." Helen went slowly away toward the court where her nag and its rider were ready for her. Stephanie lay motionless, dumb, wretched, her bosom throbbing with emotions too powerful for her—yet too vague, too blind, to enlighten her. Unawakened to passion, ignorant of it, regardless and disdainful of what she had never coped with, the mental and spiritual suffering was, perhaps, the keener. Humiliation and grief that she was no longer first and alone in Cleland’s heart and mind had grown into a sorrow deeper than she knew, deeper than she admitted to herself. All the childish and pettier emotions attended it, mocking her with her own frailty—ignoble jealousy, hard resentment, the primitive sarcasm born of envy—the white flash of hatred for those to whom this man turned for amusement—this man whom she had adored from boyhood. Why had he cast her out of the first place in his heart and mind? He had even told her that he was in love with her. Why had he turned to this shameless dancer? And to what others did he also turn to find amusement when she did not know where he was? Had it been her fault? No. From the very first night that he had come back to her—in the very face of her happiness to have him again—he had shown her what kind of man he was—there at the Ball of All the Gods—with that dreadful Goddess of Night. She turned feverishly, tortured by her thoughts, but neither they nor the hot pillow gave her any rest. They stung her like scorpions, setting every nerve on edge with something—anger, perhaps—something unendurable there in the silence of her room. And at last she got up to make an end of it, once and for all. But the preparations took her some time—some cold water, brush and comb, and a chamois rag.