Mary swung along the street with a free step and a sense of joyful elation. She had not gone far before somebody touched her lightly on the shoulder. She started and turned to find herself face to face with Ralph Darnley. He looked bronzed and well. The tan on his handsome face brought with it a whiff of the country. There was no mistaking the genuine pleasure that shone in his eyes as he held Mary's hand in his. "I called at your rooms," he said, "and they told me that you had just gone out. I followed quickly with wonderful luck. Where are you going?" "Off to the wilds of North London," Mary laughed. She felt a strange sense of gladness in the presence of Ralph; a certain shy happiness possessed her. "Our late landlady went off with our boxes. We had to sleep out the night before last." "So Lady Dashwood told me," Ralph replied. "It must have been a dreadful experience. And yet you look very well and happy, Mary." The girl laughed in a shy kind of way. "I really believe I am," she confessed. "Mind you, it was very dreadful at first. I felt so utterly lost and sad that I very nearly came back and proclaimed my defeat." "At the expense of the family pride?" Ralph laughed. "Yes," Mary said quietly with a flush on her face. "I am coming to the conclusion that the family pride is a great mistake. It made me so cold and self-contained. I never seemed to know what it was to have sympathy for anybody. To be a Dashwood is a great thing, of course. But there are far higher and nobler aims. Those two girls I live with made me thoroughly ashamed of myself. They are ladies who get their own living by art work--but, of course, you know all about Connie Colam. What a nature she has!" "One of the noblest in the world," Ralph said quietly. "Mary, I hoped that you would grow like her. I hoped that her example would be a benefit to you. With your beauty and her disposition, you would be one of the most perfect women that God ever made. Ah, the man will be lucky indeed who calls Connie Colam his wife." Mary assented warmly enough, and yet at the same time she was conscious of just a tinge of passing jealousy at the high praise of her friend. Ralph had told her all along that he loved her, that there was no other girl in the world for him. Had her coldness killed that love? Then she told herself that it did not matter, seeing that the affection was not returned in the way that Ralph meant. All the same, she could not rid herself of the impression that such a thing would take all the light out of her life, and leave her alone and desolate indeed. "Connie thinks very highly of you," she said shyly.