“We’ll find two women servants some place and go on as before, Ruth. Except that I’m not going to see quite so many people—only people I really like after this. You know I really love the old house—as near home as anything I’ll ever have. Wish we could get Amy back.” “We can,” said Ruth. “Amy and I had an agreement when she left that she would come back if you ever got rid of George. I have her address.” “Really, Ruth!” said Gloria, looking at her with genuine admiration, “You are the most amazing young person I’ve ever met. You ought to write a book on the care and training of aunts. It would be a great success.” Of this Ruth was not so sure. They were to leave on the morning train and while she had accomplished half her purpose she had not wholly succeeded. Gloria and Pendragon had met and now they were going to part more widely separated than ever before, because their opportunity had come and for some stupid reason they were both letting it go without reaching out a hand or saying one word to make it their own. And Gloria wasn’t happy—she was just normal at last, and a normal Gloria was rather a pitiful thing. She was like stale champagne—all the sparkle gone out of her. It seemed to Ruth that she could not live through another meal with Gloria and Pendragon talking across and around each other—Pendragon with his grave, quiet face in which the lines of pain seemed to be set forever—Gloria, changed and quiet, determined to work and succeed again, not for the joy of her work, but because it seemed the right thing to do. Yet she did live through another dinner, a most unhappy meal at which John and Angela sat trying to talk, realizing that something more than they could quite understand had gone wrong and not knowing exactly what to do about it. Terry and Miss Gilchrist relieved the tension somewhat, Terry consciously, Miss Gilchrist unconsciously, because no one else seemed able to talk, drew her out and once started on modern child training, there was no reason for any one else making any effort. She ran on endlessly with no more encouragement than an occasional, “Oh quite, Really, Yes indeed, or How interesting!” from Terry or Pendragon. What hurt more than anything was that Terry no longer signalled Ruth with his eyes. There was no longer any interest or invitation in them. If he had had anything to say to her he had forgotten it or lost interest, for now he seemed to avoid exchange of words or glances with her as much as Gloria and Pendragon avoided each other. There was a feeble attempt on the part of Angela to start a conversation with some semblance of animation over the coffee cups in the library afterward, but finally even she surrendered as one by one they made excuses of weariness, the early train or no excuse at all and drifted away.