Hitherto Mary had been entirely dependent upon her newly-found friend. She had come up to London with the proud intention of making her own living, a Dashwood ready to defy Fate and overcome it from the first onset. On the contrary, she had been a living example of the weakness of the unemotional when confronted with the problem of existence. If it had not been for Connie, she shuddered to think of what might have become of her by this time. But there was stirring within her now those high attributes and noble qualities that Ralph Darnley had discovered behind the armour of selfishness and ice of pride. It behooved her to act now that Connie had failed. That poor Connie's breakdown was only temporary made very little difference. Mary must become the head of the expedition now. She placed her arm around the other girl's waist and kissed her tenderly. Mary had never done such a thing in her life before. She would have found it physically impossible. And here it seemed the most natural thing in the world. "You must not give way," she whispered. "Dear Connie, you can't tell how much I admire and respect you. We are going to be friends as long as we both live. You have taught me more in the last two days than I ever learned before." "I shall be better presently," Connie sobbed. "I am so tired. Let me put my head on your shoulder and rest a little. Only don't let me go to sleep, as we shall have some horrid policeman making us move on, and I have not come quite to _that_." The weary head fell back on Mary's shoulder and the weary eyes closed. Five minutes later, and Connie had passed into the land of dreams. It was not much past three yet, and the Embankment was very quiet, save for the passing of the wretched wanderers, who seem to find nowhere rest for the soles of their feet. There were evil-looking creatures, both men and women, slouching along and hideous faces once human leered at Mary, but the daylight seemed to take all the audacity out of this. There were others, too, who had fairer faces, and who turned aside with proper respect as they saw the sleeping girl with her head on Mary's shoulder. A policeman came along like the head of the universe and paused before the seat. "This isn't quite the thing," he said. "Hope there's nothing wrong, miss?" The man was gruff, but utterly sympathetic. Mary took heart of grace. Fancy her the heiress of the Dashwoods, explaining the sordid situation to a London policeman! "We have had a great misfortune," she said. "When we got back to our lodgings tonight our landlady had vanished, taking all her furniture along. And everything of ours had vanished also; we could do nothing till today. And my friend is so worn out that she has fallen asleep, as you see." The red-faced policeman whistled. He needed nobody to tell him that he was face to face with a lady of the real West End type. He was a policeman of experience. That Mary was telling the truth he could see from the look in her eyes.