Terry Riordan had not spoken to Ruth since their arrival, when he had pretended to be quite overcome with the grandeur of her gown. Since then he had devoted himself entirely to Gloria. Ruth couldn’t blame him for that. Gloria made every one else appear colourless. No wonder Terry Riordan loved her. It was foolish of her to let him occupy her thoughts. No man in his right mind would give her a second thought in the presence of Gloria. Even the thought that she was an art student no longer brought comfort. There were so many art students in New York. Still she could not keep Terry out of her mind. It was not that she thought him a genius. Indeed, she rather scorned his slapstick lyrics. New York might bow down before his frayed cuff cleverness, but she was from the Middle West, where men are rated by what they have done, not what they are going to do. She couldn’t analyse exactly what it was about Terry Riordan that stirred her emotions,—some sympathetic quality in his voice perhaps, his never-failing cheerfulness and his absolute confidence in his own future. She was rather glad that he didn’t talk to her very much, for she blushed whenever he spoke to her. She had blushed when he spoke about her frock and old John Courtney had commented on it in his absurd exaggerated manner. “How charmingly you blush, Miss Mayfield,” he had said. “You must pardon an old gentleman for speaking of it, my dear, but I dare say it is the only genuine blush that Broadway has seen these forty years.” If it had been possible to be annoyed by anything the ancient matinée idol said, Ruth would have been annoyed, especially as it momentarily attracted the attention of every one to the party, to herself. John Courtney was another of Gloria’s admirers. “The best actress in New York,” he whispered to Ruth. “But she hasn’t had an engagement for three years. She won’t take anything but leads, and there isn’t a man who dares play opposite her. It’s not alone that she’s so tall—though no man likes to play opposite a woman from one to five inches taller than he—it’s her personality. She fills the stage. The other players are just so much background.” Later even John Courtney seemed to forget the existence of Ruth, and she sat back in the crowded box in the crowded theatre quite alone. She could not even watch the stage—for they had reduced the people on it to a group of ordinary individuals working at their trade. She had a little sketch pad and a pencil with her and began making caricatures of the principals. She became absorbed in this and forgot to feel alone. “That nose is wonderful and that’s just her trick with her hands. I didn’t know you were a cartoonist.” It was Terry Riordan looking over her shoulder. She had not known he was in the box. “I’m not a cartoonist,” she said, making an effort to hide her sketch pad. “I was only doing it for fun.”