ide
Chumley, and every other place seems unreal. I used to long to travel
when I was a girl, but I don't care about it now. I've grown so used to
doing nothing. Perhaps it may be different now that I have my own
money." She hesitated for a moment, then questioned tentatively: "Of
course you... you have always had enough money."

"Ye-es! Yes, I suppose I have. My father was a poor man for his
position, but we had practically everything we wanted,--horses and
carriages, and beautiful gardens, and change when we needed it, and
pretty clothes, and--"

"And _space_!" concluded Mary for her. "You have never known what it
was to live in a small house where you can never get more than a few
yards away from other people, never get out of the sound of their
voices, never have a place which you can call your own, except a cold
bedroom. No place where you can _cry_ without bringing rappings at the
door... That's why I want to go away. I want my money to bring me
Space. I want to feel alone, with space to do as I like, without
thinking of anyone but myself, or even having anyone to check me if I am
foolish, and reckless, and mad. I expect I shall be reckless. It's a
relief sometimes to be able to be reckless, Lady Cassandra!"

"Oh, Mary Mallison, it _is_!" cried Cassandra. She slipped her hand
through the other's arm, and said warmly, "I won't send you any
addresses, I won't give you any advice. Go away and be as reckless as
you can! And when you come back, come and tell me about it, and I'll
rejoice, and not point a single moral. It's in my heart to be reckless
too."

"Thank you," said Mary, and there was a note of real gratitude in her
voice. Lady Cassandra was the last person from whom she would have
expected understanding, but she did understand, and had even confessed
to a fellow-feeling. Mary was sufficiently under her mother's influence
to feel that sympathy from the Squire's wife was doubly valuable, yet
she was vaguely disquieted, for what was her new-found money going to
procure for her, that was not already in Cassandra's possession? If
material pleasures palled, would the mere fact of liberty be sufficient
to fill her heart? Was liberty in her case but another term for
loneliness? Mary was silent, feeling as usual that she had nothing to
say.

With arms still linked the two women turned a corner of the path, and
found themselves confronted by the Squire and his companions, who were
approachin