As Mary grew tired of Barbara she allowed to slip from her many of the
virtuous graces that had hitherto, for Barbara's benefit, adorned her.
She lost her temper, was cruel simply for the pleasure that Barbara's
ill-restrained agitation yielded her, but, even beyond this, squandered
recklessly her reputation for virtue. Twice, before Barbara's very eyes,
she told lies, and told them, too, with a real mastery of the
craft--long practice and a natural disposition had brought her very near
perfection. Barbara, her heart beating wildly, refused to understand;
Mary could not be so. She held Jane to her breast more tightly than
before. And the denials continued; twice a day now they were extorted
from her--with every denial the ghost of her Friend stole more deeply
into the mist. He was gone; he was gone; and what was left?

Very soon, and with unexpected suddenness, the crisis came.


V

Upon a day Barbara accompanied her mother to tea with Mrs. Adams. The
ladies remained downstairs in the dull splendour of the drawing-room;
Mary and Barbara were delivered to Miss Fortescue, the most recent
guardian of Mary's life and prospects.

"She's simply awful. You needn't mind a word she says," Mary instructed
her friend, and prepared then to behave accordingly. They had tea, and
Mary did as she pleased. Miss Fortescue protested, scolded, was weak
when she should have been strong, and said often, "Now, Mary, there's a
dear."

Barbara, the faint colour coming and going in her cheeks, watched. She