Ruth noted with horror that in her laughter there was a tender note as if she were talking to an attractive, big boy. Instinctively she turned to look at George’s straight back, and long, narrow head. It seemed to her that his ears were visibly listening. From somewhere Terry produced a long, knitted scarf, and this Gloria tied around the Prince’s head, laying his hat tenderly down in the middle of the sleigh. He looked like a huge, ugly boy with mumps, Ruth thought, and Gloria, whose sense of humour even her Titania-like love could not quite quench, burst into renewed peals of laughter. Perhaps he’ll get angry and break his engagement, Ruth thought, hopefully, but his resentment seemed to be at things in general rather than at Gloria. They were really very comfortable in spite of the keen wind and the country round them was magnificent, hill melting into hill in endless procession like the waves on a limitless ocean. The sky was a vivid blue and the rich green of the fir and hemlock trees shone warm in contrast to the white snow. The clear ringing of the bells on the horses seemed like fairy music leading them over the hills and far away to some tremendous adventure. Just what that adventure would be Ruth could not guess, but she knew that Gloria would be its heroine and George the villain. As for Prince Aglipogue, with his fat face swathed in the scarf, she would concede him no other rôle than that of buffoon. The hero? Perhaps Professor Pendragon, perhaps Terry, but she would rather save Terry for another story. If only she knew whether Professor Pendragon was still at Fir Tree Lodge. It would have been easy to ask the driver, who was an inquisitive New Englander and was making desperate attempts to talk with George, but, of course, she dared not do that because of Gloria. After all she was not supposed to know anything about the guests. That was Angela Peyton-Russell’s affair. The heavy snow rather helped than impeded their progress, but they were all rather cold and tremendously hungry before they reached the gates of Fir Tree Farm. Then there was a slow pull up to the top of the hill on which it was built, a huge stone house, almost hidden in a forest of fir trees. Prince Aglipogue shuddered when he looked at it. “How is it heated?” he asked in tragic tones. “Very old-fashioned—no furnace or steam heat—just fire places like your dear castles in Europe,” said Gloria, which was not true, but served its purpose of making him look even more melancholy and making Gloria laugh again. She was quite the gayest person in the party and didn’t even complain of hunger. Angela Peyton-Russell was not at the door to greet them, but a maidservant and a man servant were. Angela had read some place that it was not smart to greet one’s guests in country homes that way, so she did what she thought was the correct thing.