Mr. Corin dwelt on the magnanimity of his friend and having, as he thought, made a skillful attack on Jenny's prejudice, retired to let his arguments sink in. He had effected even more than he imagined by his cool statement of the proposal. Put forward by him, devoid of all passion and eccentricity of language, it seemed a very business-like affair. Jenny began to think how such a step would solve the problem of taking a new house, of moving the furniture, of providing for May, of getting rid of her father, now daily more irritating on account of his besotted manner of life. All the girls at the theater were marrying. It was in the air. She was growing old. The time of romantic adventure was gone. The carnival was petering out in a gloomy banality. Change was imminent in every direction. Why not make a clean sweep of the old life and, escaping to some strange new existence, create a fresh illusion of pleasure? What would her mother have said to this offer? Jenny could not help feeling she would have regarded it with very friendly eyes, would have urged strongly its acceptance. Why, she had even been anxious for Jenny to make a match with a baker; and here was a prosperous man, a religious man, a steady man, inviting her to be mistress almost of a country estate. She wished that Mr. Z. Trewhella were not so willing to wait. It made him appear so sure, so inevitable. And the time for moving was getting very near. Change was in the air. Jenny thought she would sound May's views on the future in case of sudden accident or any deliberate alteration of the present mode of life. "Where would you live if I went away?" she asked. "What do you mean?" said May, looking very much alarmed by the prospect, and turning sharply on her pillow. "I mean who would you live with? Alfie or Edie?" "Neither," May affirmed emphatically. "Why not?" "Because I wouldn't." This reply, however unsatisfactory it might have been to a logician, was to Jenny the powerfullest imaginable. "But supposing I got married?" she went on. "Well, couldn't I live with you? No, I suppose I couldn't," said May dejectedly. "I'm a lot of good, ain't I? Yes, you grumble sometimes, but what about if you was like me?" Jenny had always accepted May's cheerfulness under physical disability so much as a matter of fact that a complaint from her came with a shock. More than ever did the best course for May seem the right course for Jenny. She recalled how years ago her mother had intrusted May to her when a child. How much more sacred and binding was that trust now that she who imposed it was dead. "Don't get excited," said Jenny, petting her little sister. "Whatever I done or wherever I went, you should come along of me." May, not to display emotion, said: "Well, you needn't go sticking your great knee in my back." But Jenny knew by the quickness with which she fell asleep that May was happy and secure.