When she went down she found that Terry had indeed stayed for dinner and Gloria had changed to a gorgeous gown and Billie Irwin, who had come in late from the hair-dresser’s, had acquired a splendid aureole of golden hair in place of the streaked blond of yesterday, and Philip Noel was trying out some new music and they had all promised to stay to dinner and afterward there was a play that they simply must see, at least the second act. There was really nothing worth listening to after the second act, and all conversation about going away or about the new comedy seemed to be forgotten. “You’ll have a surprise on Sunday morning,” Terry told her. “What kind of a surprise?” asked Ruth. “Can’t tell now; it’s a secret. Gloria knows, though.” “It’s a very nice surprise,” said Gloria. Ruth glanced quickly from one to the other. Perhaps they were going to be married and would announce the fact on Sunday. “Can’t I guess?” she asked, trying to imitate their gay mood. “No! you’d never guess,” said Gloria, “but it’s really a wonderful surprise. Only you mustn’t ask questions—you’ll find out at breakfast Sunday morning and not a moment sooner.” CHAPTER IV Sunday breakfast was a ceremony at the house on Gramercy Square. Then Gloria broke away from her rule of breakfast in bed, and clad in the most alluring of French negligées, she presided at the coffee urn in the big dining-room, while around her were ranged friends expected and unexpected in harmonious Sunday comfort. There was a delightful untidiness about the entire room that was particularly cheering—ash trays with half-smoked cigarettes on the white cloth and Sunday newspapers scattered at random by casual hands. Conversation for the first half hour was confined to nods and sleepy smiles, but when the second cup of coffee had been poured people really began to talk. There was always, when the weather permitted, a fire in the grate, and after breakfast there was an hour of intimate chat in which all the stage gossip of the season was told and analysed, and careers were made and unmade. Breakfast was at eleven o’clock, but Ruth had been up for hours, working away in her studio at the top of the house. At eleven she came down, for George was intolerant of late comers. Gloria, Billie Irwin, Terry Riordan, and John Courtney were already there. They raised their heads from their newspapers and greeted her with smiles, for Gloria considered it the worst taste possible for any one to speak before she had had her first cup of coffee, and particularly she disliked “Good morning” spoken in a cheery tone. “There is no such thing as a good morning,” she always averred. “Morning is never good, except for sleep.” At the moment that Ruth entered George placed the coffee urn on the table and Gloria proceeded to pour the cups, looking very lovely with the dusk of sleep still in her eyes.