"Thank you, dear," said Conscience, quietly, and the happy serenity of her eyes seemed genuine--except to Eleanor. "Of course, at one time," Mary rushed on, "we all thought that you had decided to marry Mr. Farquaharson--and he sounded well worth while from what you told us. It only shows what an easy thing it is to make mistakes. How did you find out yourself, dear?" Eleanor Kent thought she saw Conscience wince and close her eyes for an instant as though in a paroxysm of pain, but her question came gravely: "How did I find out what?" "Why, that he was the sort of man that--well, that his mixing up in that Holbury scandal indicated." The girl who was to be married rose from the trunk over which she had been bending and averted her face, but her voice was evenly calm as she answered: "I fancy the reports we had of that were exaggerated." A sudden fire snapped in the violet eyes of Eleanor Kent and her cheeks burned under a rosy gust of anger. "Mary," she announced with spirit, "Mr. Farquaharson was a friend of Conscience's and I have no doubt he still is. I don't think either of us knows anything about him that gives us the right to criticize him. Have you read his book?" "Why, no. Of course, I didn't mean to say anything--" "Well, I advise you to read that book." Stuart's champion tossed her head with the positiveness of conviction. "It's not the kind of novel that a rake could write. It's straight and clean minded, and if what a man chooses to write, indicates what he thinks, he's that sort himself." At this defense from an unexpected quarter, a light of gratitude kindled in the face of the bride-to-be. When the day set for the wedding had worn to dusk, Conscience escaped from the guests and made her way slowly to her unlighted room. Her knees were weak and she told herself that this was the natural stage-fright of the altar--but she knew that it was more than that. As she reached for matches the sound of voices beyond the door arrested her, and the challenge of her own name held her attention. "She's _perfectly_ lovely," declared Mary Barrascale, whose speech ran to superlatives, "and she's _radiantly_ happy, too. To think that she's being married and we're still in college." Conscience straightened where she stood near the window. She raised her palms to her temples and stepped back unsteadily until she could lean against the wall. Before her eyes rose a vision of the college campus--another of the care-free dormitory, then the picture dissolved into another and she found herself trembling. Memory was playing tricks and very softly a voice seemed to whisper in her ear, as it had actually whispered long ago in response to these same regrets, "Does it hurt as much as that, dearest?" She became vaguely conscious of Eleanor's voice again, low pitched and tense. "I should think, Mary, you would see the truth. You chatter about how happy she is--and she's almost going mad before your eyes. It's ghastly--positively ghastly."