Mary's face emptied itself of all expression; it became a blank
screen suddenly put up before the disarray of hurrying, eager things,
unclothed and unexpressed.

"I'm going to stay with Mummy."

Gwenda closed the lid of the trunk and sat on it.

(Perturbation was now in Mary's face.)

"You can't, Gwenda. Papa'll never let you go."

"He can't stop me."

"What on earth are you going for?"

"Not for my own amusement, though it sounds amusing."

"Does Mummy want you?"

"Whether she wants me or not, she's got to have me."

"For how long?"

(Mary's face was heavy with thought now.)

"I don't know. I'm going to get something to do."

"To _do?_"

(Mary said to herself, then certainly it was not amusing. She pondered
it.)

"Is it," she brought out, "because of Steven Rowcliffe?"

"No. It's because of Ally."

"Ally?"

"Yes. Didn't Papa tell you about her?"

"Not he. Did he tell you?"

"No. It was Steven Rowcliffe."

And she told Mary what Rowcliffe had said to her.

She had made room for her on her trunk and they sat there, their
bodies touching, their heads drawn back, each sister staring with eyes
that gave and took the other's horror.

* * * * *

"Don't, Molly, don't----"

Mary was crying now.

"Does Papa know--that she'll die--or go mad?"

"Yes."

"But"--Mary lifted her stained face--"that's what they said about
Mother."

"If she had children. It's if Ally hasn't any."

"And Papa knew it _then_. And he knows it now--how awful."

"It isn't as awful as Steven Rowcliffe thinks. He doesn't really know
what's wrong with her. He doesn't know she's in love with _him_."

"Poor Ally. What's the good? He isn't in love with her."

"He isn't now," said Gwenda. "But he will be."

"Not he. It's you he cares for--if he cares for anybody."

"I know. That's why I'm going."

"Oh, Gwenda----"

Mary's face was somber as she took it in.

"That won't do Ally any good. If you _know_ he cares."

"I don't absolutely know it. And if I did it wouldn't make any
difference."

"And if--you care for him?"

"That doesn't make any difference either. I've got to clear out. It's
her one chance, Molly. I've got to give it her. How _can_ I let her
die, poor darling, or go mad? She'll be all right if he marries her."

"And if he doesn't?"

"He may, Molly, he may, if I clear out in time. Anyhow, there isn't
anybody else."

"If only," Mary said, "Papa had kept a curate."