It was Miss Gilchrist, but no one had to answer her, for Mr. Peyton-Russell came in just then to tell them that Miss Mayfield was quite all right. “Angela’s going to stay with her for a while, but if any of you don’t feel that your nerves are quite ready for bed, come on down to the billiard room. There’s a little drink—real, old-fashioned hot Scotch, waiting for you.” He was trying hard to be the imperturbable jovial host and perhaps he succeeded for there was a general exodus. Terry looked questioningly at Ruth. She shook her head. She wanted above everything to get away from them. They would sit over their drinks and gossip discreetly—discuss George, why Pendragon had killed the snake, his sudden return to health, his usurpation of Aglipogue’s place at Gloria’s side. She had not killed the snake but she had gone through all the nervous strain of preparing to kill it—of thinking she had killed it and she was very tired. Terry walked with her as far as the staircase. “Tomorrow,” he said, but she did not know what he meant. Yet she slept that night. She was in that state of weariness mental and physical in which one stretches out like a cat, feeling the cool, clean linen like a caress and thanking God for the greatest blessing in all this tired world—sleep. She woke late with a sense of happiness and relief even before she was sufficiently conscious to remember the events of the past night. It was a wonderful Christmas day—sunshiny and bright. She lay quietly thinking, looking at the holly wreaths at her windows and watching some snow birds on her sill. She wished lazily that she had some crumbs to feed them. She felt very young, almost like a child. It would be nice to be a child again, to get up and explore the contents of a stocking hung before the chimney place in the living-room of a Middle West home. She thought of her mother, as one inevitably thinks of the dead on days of home gathering, and soft tears filled her eyes. She answered a discreet knock on the door and a maid entered with a tray. It was the gossipy maid of her first day. How she knew that she was awake Ruth could not guess. “I thought you’d rather have breakfast in bed this morning, Miss,” and then as an afterthought, “Merry Christmas, Miss.” “Merry Christmas— It is a Merry Christmas after all, and I would like breakfast in bed, though it makes me feel awfully lazy. How did you think of it?” “The mistress left orders last night, but I’d thought of it anyway—after what we all went through last night—” She shook her head and compressed her lips solemnly. Ruth looked at her, willing to be interested in anything or anybody. She could not have been much older than Ruth herself, but hard work and a coiffure composed of much false hair surmounted by a preposterously small maid’s cap, made her seem much more mature. As Ruth did not answer she went on: “Such goings on—it’s a wonder we’re all alive to tell of it.” “Then you didn’t like the show?” asked Ruth.