The door closed loudly, and the sisters were left alone, abashed and discomfited. When our minds are overflowing with the consciousness of our own grievances, it is always irritating to be forced to realise that there are two sides to every question, and that we ourselves are not altogether without blame. Mary Mallison had so long been in subjection to her parents, that the consciousness of their serious displeasure overwhelmed for the moment the smart of her own injuries. She was still obstinate, still determined, but her conscience was pricked, and she was unheroically afraid. "Oh, Trissie... they are cross! Do you think they will ever forgive me?" "Don't be a rotter, Mary," the younger sister cried scornfully. "I was thankful to hear you assert yourself at last. For goodness' sake don't give one bleat, and then relapse back into the old rut. _Of course_ they are cross! What else did you expect? Did you expect them to be pleased? If you are going to break loose and lead an independent life you must be strong enough not to mind crossness." "Yes, but I can't, and besides--father was sad! That's worse than being cross. I felt miserable when he said that!" "Well! he was right!" Teresa pronounced with characteristic certainty. "It was sneakish to go on pretending.--It wasn't patience at all, it was sheer funk. It would have been better for you, and everyone concerned, if you'd spoken out years ago. You would have had more freedom, and mother would have been less of a bully." "It would have been better if I'd been born with a different disposition, a disposition which would have _let_ me speak," Mary said bitterly. "I am a coward, as you say, and nothing but a shock like this morning's news could have wound me up to speak. It seems hard that people should have such different dispositions." "Humph!" Teresa mumbled vaguely. She was not interested in the difference of temperament; she was interested in Mary's fortune, and how she was going to use it. She pushed aside her cup and plate, leant her arms on the table, and cupped her chin in her hands. "Look here, Mary--what are you going to do?" "I'm going away." "Where?" "I don't know! Anywhere. London. Paris. It doesn't matter very much. I want just to be away from Chumley, and to be free. To go where I like, and do as I like." "Alone?" Mary's face twitched. "I have no friends." "You have acquaintances. They would be glad... lots of people would be glad to go with you." "No! They are part of the old life. They would stare and take notes. They would write home and gossip. It would be no use going away--I should not escape. The old atmosphere would be round me all the time. I shall go alone."