"What in heaven's name do you mean?" Mary's question broke from her in amazement. "I mean that anyone who wasn't deliberately trying to be deceived ought to see what all this radiant happiness is worth. She's sick with doubt and misgiving. If you ask me I believe it's because she still loves Stuart Farquaharson--and besides I don't believe he was ever given a fair chance." The girl halted and then broke into silent tears. "She's letting them make a sacrifice of her--and I'm utterly ill with the thought of it." Conscience leaning weakly against the wall, let both hands drop nervelessly at her sides. "I don't believe ... he was ever given a fair chance." Her lips shaped the words she had just heard in a soundless echo. Was that true? she asked herself, accusingly, and her brain was too confused for a just answer. An avalanche of new doubts rushed down upon her, crushing her reason. She saw in this ceremony a horrible travesty from which she must escape at all costs.... But how? She had no longer the strength to repudiate boldly her settled decision. Her courage was at ebb and she was caught in the grip of unreasoning panic. She would abandon everything and everybody ... she would slip away ... she would be true to herself first and then try afresh to be true to others. In short she was for the time distracted. She slipped over noiselessly and closed her door. She selected a small traveling bag from the other pieces of luggage packed for her wedding trip. Then, overcome by sheer emotional exhaustion, she threw herself on her bed where she sobbed quietly in the flickering of the candles. It was so that the bridesmaids found her when they came in their capacity of tire maidens to remind her that she must soon begin dressing for the ceremony. At once Eleanor had her arms about her friend, while Mary stood by gasping and ineffectual. Slowly Conscience raised her face and looked miserably from one to the other. Her voice was dead and colorless. "I heard what you said, Eleanor," she declared. "It's all true.... I can't go through with it." "But it's too late now, dear!" began Mary Barrascale's horrified voice which Miss Kent silenced with a glance of contempt. "Thank God, it's _not_ too late--yet," she said calmly. "It's never too late while it's still _now_. But the bag, dear--what was that?" Conscience rose and stood unsteadily with a trace of panic lingering in her eyes. She spoke faintly. "I guess I was quite mad.... I had the impulse to--to run away." "You can't do that, you know." Eleanor Kent was one of those diminutive and very feminine persons, who in moments of crisis can none the less assume command with the quiet assurance of an admiral on his bridge.