"And _space_!" concluded Mary for her. "You have never known what it was to live in a small house where you can never get more than a few yards away from other people, never get out of the sound of their voices, never have a place which you can call your own, except a cold bedroom. No place where you can _cry_ without bringing rappings at the door... That's why I want to go away. I want my money to bring me Space. I want to feel alone, with space to do as I like, without thinking of anyone but myself, or even having anyone to check me if I am foolish, and reckless, and mad. I expect I shall be reckless. It's a relief sometimes to be able to be reckless, Lady Cassandra!" "Oh, Mary Mallison, it _is_!" cried Cassandra. She slipped her hand through the other's arm, and said warmly, "I won't send you any addresses, I won't give you any advice. Go away and be as reckless as you can! And when you come back, come and tell me about it, and I'll rejoice, and not point a single moral. It's in my heart to be reckless too." "Thank you," said Mary, and there was a note of real gratitude in her voice. Lady Cassandra was the last person from whom she would have expected understanding, but she did understand, and had even confessed to a fellow-feeling. Mary was sufficiently under her mother's influence to feel that sympathy from the Squire's wife was doubly valuable, yet she was vaguely disquieted, for what was her new-found money going to procure for her, that was not already in Cassandra's possession? If material pleasures palled, would the mere fact of liberty be sufficient to fill her heart? Was liberty in her case but another term for loneliness? Mary was silent, feeling as usual that she had nothing to say. With arms still linked the two women turned a corner of the path, and found themselves confronted by the Squire and his companions, who were approaching from the farther side; but now there was a fourth member of the party, for Dane Peignton walked beside his _fiancee_, smiling down into her upturned face, and for the moment unobservant of the new-comers, who were still some distance away. Cassandra's hand jerked on Mary's arm, she was conscious of a rise of colour, and to cover it said quickly: "Captain Peignton has deigned to appear at last. I asked him to lunch. Teresa should scold him... but I suppose they meet constantly. Are they to be married quite soon?" She was glad of an opportunity of putting a question which she longed to have answered, but had shirked putting into words, but Mary's answer was not illuminative. "I hope not."