"Why--why----" Mary Alice faltered. Her lips quivered and her eyes
began to fill. "I--I must go in," she said.

He put out a hand to detain her, but either she did not see it in the
dark, or else she eluded it; for in a moment she was gone, across the
terrace towards the lighted French windows of the rooms of state.

How she managed to get through those next few minutes until she could
find the Duchess and ask to be excused, Mary Alice never knew. All of
her that was capable of feeling or caring about anything seemed to have
left this part of her that wore the Duchess's lovely white gown and
scarf of silver tissue, and to be out on the dark terrace under the
pale star beams, with a tall young man who spoke bitterly. This girl
in the sheen of white and silver to whom the King was speaking kindly,
was some one unreal and ghostly who acted like a real live girl, but
was not.

As she hurried along the great corridors towards her room in the far
wing, Mary Alice felt that she could hardly wait to get off these
trappings of state; to get back to her old simple self again and bury
her head in her pillow and cry and cry. She wished with all her heart
for Godmother. But most of all she was sick for home, for Mother, and
the unchanging sitting-room.

"He" had seemed disappointed to find her here. And she----? Well! she
was sorry she had seen him. In New York, where she had not even known
his name, he had seemed to belong to her, in a way, by right of their
common sympathy and understanding. Here, among all these people who
were his people, who delighted to honour him, he seemed completely lost