been better for you, and everyone concerned,
if you'd spoken out years ago. You would have had more freedom, and
mother would have been less of a bully."

"It would have been better if I'd been born with a different
disposition, a disposition which would have _let_ me speak," Mary said
bitterly. "I am a coward, as you say, and nothing but a shock like this
morning's news could have wound me up to speak. It seems hard that
people should have such different dispositions."

"Humph!" Teresa mumbled vaguely. She was not interested in the
difference of temperament; she was interested in Mary's fortune, and how
she was going to use it. She pushed aside her cup and plate, leant her
arms on the table, and cupped her chin in her hands.

"Look here, Mary--what are you going to do?"

"I'm going away."

"Where?"

"I don't know! Anywhere. London. Paris. It doesn't matter very much.
I want just to be away from Chumley, and to be free. To go where I
like, and do as I like."

"Alone?"

Mary's face twitched.

"I have no friends."

"You have acquaintances. They would be glad... lots of people would be
glad to go with you."

"No! They are part of the old life. They would stare and take notes.
They would write home and gossip. It would be no use going away--I
should not escape. The old atmosphere would be round me all the time.
I shall go alone."

Teresa sat silent, striving to grasp the extraordinary idea of Mary on
her own, Mary going forth into the world, staying in hotels, wandering
about bustling streets, alone, always alone... There was something
pathetic in the prospect which pierced even to the preoccupied, girlish
heart. She frowned, and racked her brains for illuminating suggestions.
Where could Mary go? What could Mary do? To stay alone in an hotel,
with no occupation to help one through the aimless hours, would be
desolation, yet the mental searchings brought no solution. Honestly,
Teresa could not think of one thing outside the Chumley radius, in which
Mary took a flicker of interest. In imagination she entered a great
restaurant, heard the babble of voices, the flare of the band, and
beheld in a corner the dun-coloured figure of Mary, seated in solitary
state at a flower-decked table. She saw the other visitors stream forth
to their various pleasures, and Mary creep silently up the stairs. She
saw Mary's face peering disconsolately through dusty panes.

Breed a bird in a cage, and rear