"Oh, Terry! Would you really come?" There was a break in Grace's voice, and her hand sought Theresa's. "Would you? I've always wanted to." "Have you? Won't you be ashamed? I'm such a gawk." "Ashamed! You're lovely. I shall be so proud to show you off. There's no one like you, Terry. You're--you're a person! And if you'd only be a little tidier, you would be pretty. And nothing"--the loyalty of her heart swelled triumphantly into her voice--"nothing can prevent your being distinguished!" Theresa chuckled. She had no illusions as to her outer self. "Don't overdo it. I don't expect to be a success, but I should like to have a little fun. I've been--a bit lonely." "Oh!" Grace moaned over her and held her close. "I didn't know you were wanting it. I didn't, Terry!" "And I wasn't--truly. But now---" "Well, you shan't be lonely any more, darling." Theresa was wiser. She knew there was something in her nature which would not be so easily satisfied, but she did not know how to feed it; it was always piteously hungry, and even when she had drugged it with the sweet drink of gaiety and laughter, she could hear its muffled weeping far down in the depths of her heart. The social engagements of these hard-working young women were not of an extravagant nature, nor were they many; but there were dances now and then, and supper parties, and sometimes a bevy of men and maidens would wait patiently outside the theatre for the joy of sitting in the front row of the pit, where they eat chocolates between the acts. On these occasions Uncle George always went to bed before their return, as a sign of his displeasure, but Edward Webb had the kettle on the fire and warm slippers for them if the night were cold. Theresa liked dancing, and she liked going to the theatre, but she never lost her sense of strangeness in the company of Grace's friends. She knew she was essentially different from them, and she always found herself looking at things from the opposite side to theirs, so that there seemed to be a high wall between them, barring sight and deadening sound. Yet she had her little success among them. They thought her amusing, and she enjoyed their admiration, but gradually she dropped out of their affairs. That voice within was now impervious to the drugs, and she could get no peace from its clamour. Constant listening to the sound brought back the elfin eagerness of her looks, she grew thinner and more restless, yet her face grew indefinably in beauty of line and texture, for though she was unsatisfied and uncertain, she was at least listening to the claims of her spirit, and trying to understand them. "What's the matter, Terry? Why aren't you coming?" Grace asked, with wide eyes full of anxious love, and Theresa, after searching for a way of putting it, replied: