"But you said that--that you found the latter part of the evening
at young Mrs. Sheridan's unentertaining--"

"And as Mr. James Sheridan was there, and I saw more of him than
at dinner, and had a horribly stupid time in spite of that, you
think I--" And then it was Mary who left the deduction unfinished.

Mrs. Vertrees nodded; and though both the mother and the daughter
understood, Mary felt it better to make the understanding definite.

"Well," she asked, gravely, "is there anything else I can do? You
and papa don't want me to do anything that distresses me, and so,
as this is the only thing to be done, it seems it's up to me not to
let it distress me. That's all there is about it, isn't it?"

"But nothing MUST distress you!" the mother cried.

"That's what I say!" said Mary, cheerfully. "And so it doesn't.
It's all right." She rose and took her cloak over her arm, as if to
go to her own room. But on the way to the door she stopped, and stood
leaning against the foot of the bed, contemplating a threadbare rug at
her feet. "Mother, you've told me a thousand times that it doesn't
really matter whom a girl marries."

"No, no!" Mrs. Vertrees protested. "I never said such a--"

"No, not in words; I mean what you MEANT. It's true, isn't it, that
marriage really is 'not a bed of roses, but a field of battle'? To
get right down to it, a girl could fight it out with anybody, couldn't
she? One man as well as another?"