It was all working out now exactly as Ralph had hoped and wished for. Never had he admired Mary quite so much as he did at that moment. And yet his heart smote him as he realised that after all there was something akin to harshness in his action. Still, the case would have been very much the same had he declared his identity and proclaimed the fact that he was the proper owner of Dashwood Hall.

Mary would in that case have remained in much the same position, though the situation would have perhaps lacked its present dramatic features. Mary stood there with a proud look on her face; she was ready to meet the world and conquer it single-handed. How many bright strong young lives had set forth with the same cheerfulness and failed! Still, it was a step in the right direction, Ralph thought.

"Had you not better give the thing further consideration?" he said. "In the ways of the world you are little better than a child. Of your courage and resolution there is no doubt. But there are other qualities needed to make a living today. You must have a good knowledge of some business or profession."

"I can paint," Mary said. "Many people have told me that I should have made an artist if I had had to earn my own living."

Ralph nodded grimly. He had seen several of the girl's drawings. There was no necessity to point out the vast difference between the best efforts of the amateur and the finished work of the professional, tricks of the trade learned frequently after years of bitter struggling.

It seemed a pity to discourage Mary at the outset of her career. And Ralph was not anxious for the girl's success. He turned the situation over rapidly in his mind.

"You can try," he said. "There is a friend of mine, the daughter of a once famous general officer who gets her living by working for the cheap illustrated papers. She has no great talent, but she manages to get a living. If you like, I will write to her and ask her to----"

"It will be too late," Mary cried, "I am going tonight. I could not stay here a day longer after what has happened. The mere sight of the old house brings the tears to my eyes and makes me feel weak and irresolute. I have something like thirty pounds in money and a little jewellery. And my maid has given me the address of a respectable woman who lets lodgings.

"Oh, I shall be happy enough when I am away from here and have plenty of hard work to do. Only the other day I was reading a story about a girl, like myself, who went to London and began to work for the magazines. It made a different creature of her; for the first time in her life she was really happy."

"She made a large income from the start," Ralph smiled, "and presently she had a great hit with an Academy picture. Subsequently she married the editor--proprietor of a popular paper--and he bought the old home for her?"

"You have read the story?" Mary asked.

"Indeed I haven't," Ralph replied. "There are so many stories like that that I had no difficulty in imagining the plot. Oh, if you only knew how different the real is from the ideal! Still, I would not dissuade you from your ambition for a moment. It will do you all the good in the world. But you shall not go alone."

Mary glanced haughtily at the speaker. There was an air of command, a suggestion of possession, about the speech that the girl resented. Who was Ralph Darnley that he should adopt this tone towards her? And at the same time Mary knew that he was the one friend she had, if she did not count Lady Dashwood.

It was a melancholy confession, but Mary had made no friends. For the most part members of her own sex did not like her, she was too cold and self-contained for them. She did not enter into their sentiments and pleasures. It had not been the girl's own fault so much as the fault of her environment.

And now she was going out into the world alone with a few pounds in her possession, and with not a soul to give her a helping hand. There was something very pathetic about it, Ralph thought. She knew so very little as to what lay before her.

"I wish you would wait till tomorrow," he murmured.

"No," Mary said with a proud toss of her head. "It is not the slightest use trying to break my resolution. I tell you I could not remain here, I could not stay even with Lady Dashwood, knowing that my father was sponging on the good nature of the man at the Hall. It seems a dreadful thing to me----"

"That is a most improper observation to make," Dashwood said peevishly. "A most impertinent remark to address to a father."

"I am very sorry," Mary said penitently, "it seemed the only word to use. And ............