Mary put the letter back in its envelope, and went out to look for Teresa's evening dress. She paid for it out of her own money, and decided to offer it in the shape of an advance birthday present. In any case she would have to give something in October; it might just as well be bought now. She experienced a torpid satisfaction in the transaction, but it soon faded, and left her mind empty as before. Teresa's appreciation and affection came too late. Five years ago they might have transformed her life, but they had not been given. Of what use to offer them now when their lives lay apart? Speculations as to Lady Cassandra Raynor, even as to Peignton himself, aroused no flicker of interest. They had been mummers in a play, and she had escaped into the open air. The only person of whom she had cared to hear was her father, and concerning him Teresa was mute. Another week passed, and still another. Mary left the big hotel, and moved into a smaller one, of the glorified boarding-house type. Here, if she had chosen, she might have been less lonely, for there were half a dozen solitary women like herself, who would have been glad to include her in games of cards, or to exchange confidences over afternoon tea, but Mary had played a duty game of whist every week night for a dozen years, and had vowed never to touch another card. Moreover, she shrank from the furious curiosity of these women, who seemed capable of asking personal questions for hours at a time. She left the boarding-house and took furnished apartments, but the hot weather came on with a rush, and the rooms grew stuffy and breathless, so for the third time she was faced with the problem, of where to go next.