watched Mary now with quite a fresh intention. She had begun her voyage
of discovery: what was in Mary's head, _what_ would she do next? What
Mary did next was to propose, after tea, that they should travel through
other parts of the house.

"We'll be back in a moment," Mary flung over her head to Miss Fortescue.
They proceeded then through passages, peering into dark rooms, looking
behind curtains, Barbara following behind her friend, who seemed to be
moved by a rather aimless intention of finding something to do that she
shouldn't. They finally arrived at Mrs. Adams's private and particular
sitting-room, a place that may be said, in the main, to stand as a
protest against the rule of the ancient philosopher, being all pink and
flimsy and fragile with precious vases and two post-impressionist
pictures (a green apple tree one, the other a brown woman), and lace
cushions and blue bowls with rose leaves in them. Barbara had never been
into this room before, nor had she ever in all her seven years seen
anything so lovely.

"Mother says I'm never to come in here," announced Mary. "But I
do--lots. Isn't it pretty?"

"P'r'aps we oughtn't----" began Barbara.

"Oh, yes, we ought," answered Mary scornfully. "Always you and your
'oughtn't.'"

She turned, and her shoulders brushed a low bracket that was close to
the door. A large Nankin vase was at her feet, scattered into a thousand
pieces. Even Mary's proud indifference was stirred by this catastrophe,
and she was down on her knees in an instant, trying to pick up the