Sir George protested mildly that he could do nothing else. But Mary was not listening. She glanced at the familiar objects about her; she passed over to the window and pulled up the blind. The moon was shining peacefully upon the rose garden and tinting with silver glory the old gates beyond, as it had done many times the last two hundred years. It all looked so sweet and graceful, so refined and restful. No shadow of disgrace had ever rested on the house before, no slander had ever made a target of the house of Dashwood. And now the tongues of the whole county would be wagging. The price to pay was a terrible one, but Mary did not hesitate. It never occurred to her that she was deliberately estranging the very pride that she hugged so closely to her heart, that trouble and misfortune could be borne with dignity and fortitude, that the gossip of the idle mattered nothing. She reached out a hand to her father, and he understood. He took a note from his pocket and passed it over to the girl. It was only a few lines that Mayfield had written, but there was no mistaking their meaning. Mary felt that the words had been written for her alone; very clearly the issue had been thrown into her hands. She crossed over to a table and began to write. She was burning and trembling from head to foot; therefore she was surprised to see that her handwriting had never been bolder and firmer. Without heading or ending of any kind she wrote this message to Mayfield:-- "It is getting late now, but it is not too late to talk business to a business man. I am sending you this at once, so that you may get it a little after eleven. If you will be so good as to come over tonight we may settle matters at once." She read the letter aloud and folded it calmly. Sir George nodded a sort of shamefaced approval. Under his brows he had been watching Mary with the keenest anxiety all the time. He knew that the girl's scruples were justified; that he ought to have torn up Mayfield's letter and treat it with the contemptuous silence that it deserved. But he merely smiled and nodded his head. "I have done it," Mary said. "God knows the price that I am likely to pay for my sacrifice, if the sacrifice is worthy of the occasion. Where is Slight?" Slight replied to the bell in person. His small red face had an angry flush; his grey hair stood up all over his head like a clothes brush. "Take this over to Swainson's farm," Mary said, "and wait for an answer. The letter is for Mr. Mayfield, as you will see, Slight." The old butler drew back a few paces. He regarded the letter as if it had been something noisome to sting him; his face grew obstinate and dark and almost murderous. Slight was a fanatic in his way, as Mary had noticed many times. "Beg pardon, miss," he said doggedly, "but I respectfully decline to do anything of the sort."