The neat finality of all this, produced, momentarily, the effect of
ranging Mary on the other side, with Paula and her musician. But just at
this point, she lost her character of disinterested spectator, for
Wallace, having put March back in his box and laid him deliberately on
the shelf, abruptly produced, by way of diversion, another piece of goods
altogether.

"I hope Mary's come home to stay," he said to John. "We can't let her go
away again, can we?"

Afterward, she was able to see that it was a natural enough thing for him
to have said. It would never have occurred to him, pleasant, harmless
sentimentalist that he was, that John's second marriage might be a
disturbing factor in his relation with Mary and that the question so
cheerfully asked as an escape from the more serious matter that he had
been talking about, struck straight into a ganglion of nerves.

But at the time, no such excuse for him presented itself. She stared for
a moment, breathless, paled a little and locked her teeth so that they
shouldn't chatter; then, a wave of bright anger relaxed her stiffened
muscles. She did not look at her father but was aware that he was fixedly
not looking at her.

"I don't know whether I am going to stay or not," she said casually
enough. "There isn't any particular reason why I should, unless I can
find something to do. You haven't a job for me, have you?"

"A job?" Wallace gasped.

"In your office," she explained. "Filing and typing, or running the