dn't do;
there was something repulsive in such thoughts at present; she must
take something else; she was out of that mood at present. And then she
thought of Mary; the thought gave her confidence, even pleasure of a sad
sort, as if the triumph of Ralph and Mary proved that the fault of her
failure lay with herself and not with life. An indistinct idea that the
sight of Mary might be of help, combined with her natural trust in her,
suggested a visit; for, surely, her liking was of a kind that implied
liking upon Mary's side also. After a moment's hesitation she decided,
although she seldom acted upon impulse, to act upon this one, and turned
down a side street and found Mary's door. But her reception was not
encouraging; clearly Mary didn't want to see her, had no help to impart,
and the half-formed desire to confide in her was quenched immediately.
She was slightly amused at her own delusion, looked rather
absent-minded, and swung her gloves to and fro, as if doling out the few
minutes accurately before she could say good-by.

Those few minutes might very well be spent in asking for information
as to the exact position of the Suffrage Bill, or in expounding her own
very sensible view of the situation. But there was a tone in her voice,
or a shade in her opinions, or a swing of her gloves which served to
irritate Mary Datchet, whose manner became increasingly direct, abrupt,
and even antagonistic. She became conscious of a wish to make Katharine
realize the importance of this work, which she discussed so coolly, as
though she, too, had sacrificed what Mary herself had sacrificed. The
swinging of the gloves ceased, and Katharine, after ten minutes, began
to make movements preliminary to departure. At the sight of this, Mary
was aware--she was abnormally aware of things to-night--of another very
strong desire; Katharine was not to be allowed to go, to disappear into
the free, happy world of irresponsible individuals. She must be made to
realize--to feel.

"I don't quite see," she said, as if Katharine had challenged her
explicitly, "how, things being as they are, any one can help trying, at
least, to do something."

"No. But how ARE things?"

Mary pressed her lips, and smiled ironically; she had Katharine at her
mercy; she could, if she liked, discharge upon her head wagon-loads
of revolting proof of the state of things ignored by the casual, the
amateur, the looker-on, the cynical observer of life at a distance.
And