“Oh, what difference does it make?  We’re getting silly over trifles.  Have it your way, mamma.”

Trifles!  Gloria wondered if any other act of her life had had the tremendous import of that sudden yielding to her mother’s wishes.  If the mirror had been placed anywhere else in the universe, even by a few inches removed from its present abiding-place, would there be a Gloria Gaynor in all the world right now?  Or would her chair hold quite another sort of person—­Mrs. Gratton?  If she had not lifted her desperate eyes and seen Mark King reflected at the window, how would she have answered that one final question the “judge” propounded?  Would she have said “Yes”?  Or would it have been “No”?  She did not know; she would never know.  She had been on the verge, dizzy with profitless speculation.  And now, only the extent of one little word stood between her and an unthinkable condition.  That a whole life should be steered down one channel or another—­oh, what immeasurably separated channels!—­by one’s breath in a single-syllabled word——­

* * * * *

“You don’t answer!” a voice was saying irritably.

She started.  They were talking to her, they had been talking to her, and now she realized that she had heard voices across a great distance, and by no means as clear to her consciousness as the remembered voice of her mother two years ago arguing for a mirror over the fireplace.  She turned her eyes on Gratton, since obviously it was he who insisted on an answer.  But King spoke for her.

“Look here, Gratton,” he said bluntly, “as far as I can see there is no reason why Miss Gaynor should pay the least attention to your effervescings if she doesn’t care to.  She is a free agent and under no obligations to you.”

“I’ll ask your opinion when I want it,” snapped Gratton.  “Miss Gloria——­”

“You asked me something?” said Gloria.  “Pardon me.  I didn’t hear.”

Her aloof reply disconcerted him.  Her attitude was spontaneous, unaffected, and hence unconsciously one of polite indifference.  Suddenly Gratton, fume as he would, had become of not the least importance.

“You said that you would marry me.  Not a dozen minutes ago.”

“Did I?” she demanded coolly.  “Are you quite sure I said that?”

“Look here, Miss Gloria.”  It was Jim Spalding, who had been ill at ease all along and now had the brains and perhaps the delicacy to understand that this was no place for him.  “If you don’t need me after all, I’ll go.”

“And the rest of us with you,” said King.  “If Miss Gaynor cares to talk things over with Gratton——­”

Gloria put out her hand impulsively, touching King’s arm.

“You stay.  Please.  Until—­he goes.”

King inclined his head gravely, not realizing that his body stiffened under her light touch.

“What about me?” demanded the “judge” sharply.  “Am I needed or ain’t I?”