“Why do you think I won’t believe you? I don’t believe or disbelieve, I know that I have been hypnotized, or mad, or ill—something. I woke up this morning quite new— Perhaps it’s religion—” She laughed with something of her old careless mirth. “Anyway I’m quite sane now, and I do want to get back to New York so that I can begin rehearsals in Terry’s new play. I feel like working hard, like beginning all over again— I feel—so—so free, that’s the word, as if I had been in prison—a prison with mirror walls, every one of which reflected a distorted vision of myself. That’s all I could see—myself, always myself and always wrong.” “May I come in?” It was Angela at the still half-open door. “Why, you’re not leaving?” “No; I only thought I was. Changed my mind again.” “And you’re quite well. The poor, dear Prince has been quite frantic. He’s so anxious to see you for himself before he will be assured that you’re really all right, after the shock last night. He’s waiting for you now. The other men have gone off on a hike through the snow. John has such a passion for exercise—afraid of getting stout, though he won’t admit it. I told the Prince that I would try and send you down to him.” “I can’t go now. Ruth will go down and talk to him.” “Ruth? But he wants you.” A sign from Gloria counselled Ruth to go now before the discussion, and she slipped out unnoticed by Angela whose blue eyes were fixed on Gloria, awaiting explanations. Prince Aglipogue was not difficult to find. She could hear his heavy pacing before she had reached the bottom of the stairs. He stopped abruptly when he saw her approaching, waving his cigarette frantically with one hand while he twisted his moustache with the other. “Gloria, Miss Mayfield, she is well; you have news from her? She is coming down?” “Miss Mayfield is well, but she is not coming down just now. She wants to be alone, but she sent me—” It was impossible to tell him. Much as she hated the man she did not quite have the courage to deliver Gloria’s message without preliminaries. “Yes? Yes?—speak, tell me; she is ill, is it not?” There was a nervous apprehension in his voice and manner that made Ruth suspect that the news would not be altogether unexpected. “No; she is not ill. As I said she is quite well, but she asked me to say—to tell you—it’s awfully hard to say it, but she asked me to tell you that she cannot marry you and that it would be very tactful if you would go back to New York at once without trying to see her.” It was blunderingly done, but she could think of no other way to tell it. Unwelcome truths are only made more ugly by any effort to soften their harshness.