“Fun! Fun!” the tall thin woman fairly shrieked at her, and the eyebrow pencil she was using slipped and made a long mark down her nose that she had to rub off subsequently with cold cream, producing a fine, high polish, which in turn had to be removed with powder, so thickly applied that Ruth thought she looked as if her nose was made of plaster of Paris and had been fastened on after the rest of her face was finished. It was difficult to do anything in the tiny crowded space, but she finally completed a hasty toilet and hurried out to rejoin Terry, who, in her absence, had secured two cups of coffee and some toast and brought them to their seats in the Pullman. “Where’s the Prince?” she asked suddenly, remembering his unwelcome existence. “In the dining-car; he got there early and managed to secure what little food there was aboard.” “Gloria’s train is right behind us,” he continued, “so we’ll wait for her at the station and all go up together.” The increasing warmth in the train was beginning to clear the frosted windows, and Ruth could see that the snow had stopped falling. A wonderful pink glow was resting on top of the softly rounded mountains, and where the clouds were herded between two high crests it looked like a rose-coloured lake with fir trees on its banks. She forgot her uncomfortable night and felt new-born like the sun. Everything was simple and easy. Everything would be solved; Gloria would not marry Prince Aglipogue. She certainly would not, for he came in now, unshaved, with bloodshot eyes and rumpled linen. He did not speak at all, but slumped in his chair, his chins resting on his bulging shirt bosom. “Have you seen George?” she asked Terry. “Yes; he’s all right. I only hope the daughter of Shiva froze to death, but I fear not.” “Will it be long now?” “We’ll be into North Adams in less than an hour.” “I’m afraid you didn’t get any sleep at all,” said Ruth, observing that his eyes looked tired. “Do I look as badly as that?” he parried. “Never mind, wait until we reach Fir Tree Farm and I’ve had a mug of hot Scotch.” “What’s hot Scotch?” “It’s something that no one would think of drinking at any time except the Christmas holiday—and the only thing that it seems quite correct to drink on a Christmas holiday, especially in a country house. It’s hot, and sweet and full of Captain Kidd’s own brand of rum, and spice, and—oh, ever so many things. You’ll see.” “Perhaps Gloria won’t let me drink it,” said Ruth. “Don’t ask her—from now on you must ask me—and if I say you may, it’s all right.” “Why?” “Haven’t I tucked you in and watched over you like a mother?” said Terry. “That gives me the right to say yes and no about things. I shall explain my new position just as soon as the stately Gloria steps off the train.” “This is North Adams; I heard a man say so—” “Yes; we’re here. I wonder if there’s food in the station. I’m starving already.”