What do you suppose Thurlow Wayne thought of you? Just beating it like that without a word of explanation?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking about his opinion,” said Constance, a troubled look in her face. “But didn’t you get my message? Maggie promised to give it to you.”

“Oh yes, I got your message. But I knew there must be something back of it. You never are rude like that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Constance, “but I really had to get away at once. I had to lie down.”

Doris swung around on her.

“What did Thurl do? I can’t understand it. I was just sure you’d fall for him as soon as you saw him. I thought you’d see how clever and sophisticated he is. I was sure you’d fall for him hard. And I knew he was simply nuts about you just from having seen you in the distance, and then—you vanish! What was the matter with him? What do you want for your money?”

“He’s probably all right for the people who like him,” said Constance, feeling somehow a weight on her tongue. “He’s just not the type that I admire, that’s all!” she finished lamely.

“For goodness’ sake! What could you ask for more? Handsome as a picture, rich as Croesus, crazy about you, and clever as they come. And you treated him like the dust under your feet! Well, I can tell you he’s not used to that. No wonder he said you were like an icicle.”

Constance rose up on one elbow and looked at her roommate earnestly.

“Did he say that, Doris?”

“He certainly did!” said Doris indignantly. “Called you a polar star and a lot of other poetic things, but I could see he was mad all over. Of course I excused you, said you weren’t feeling well and a lot of bunk and that you hadn’t wanted to come but wouldn’t let him down and all that. But I could see he was cut clear through, and I know something happened. I don’t see why you had to develop such an awful hate for him. Now what was it? Confess.”

“Nothing really happened at all, Dorrie.” Constance spoke quietly, almost humbly. “And I don’t really hate him. I think perhaps it was myself I hated. While I was dancing with him, I—just—hated myself. Perhaps you won’t understand, and I’m afraid I can’t explain, but that’s the way it really was.”

Doris stared.

“If you aren’t the oddest girl!” she said. “And you didn’t used to be at all! You used to be a good sport, ready for anything. You never even took such a dislike to Casper Coulter till this last time you went home. If joining the church ruins a person for life, then it’s to be hoped no more of our class will join. That string of pearls has just ruined your disposition, Connie Courtland. You’re getting too good for this earth!” And Doris snapped a string of amber beads around her neck and slammed out of the room and down to breakfast.

Constance got out of her bed, locked the door, and then stood staring across her room in a kind of dazed wonder.

“Then he didn’t know!” she said aloud. “He thought I was an icicle. Oh, I’m glad, glad, glad!”

Suddenly the color flowered into her white cheeks, and she put up her hands and covered her face, dropping upon her knees beside the bed, burying her face in the pillow.

She wasn’t praying. She didn’t really know how. But she felt as if her soul was being bathed in prayer, made clean somehow from a smirch she dreaded, by a prayer, someone else’s prayer, not hers.