"Oh, yes, yes," Mary cried, "I should love to go with you. You may think that I am very foolish and ignorant, but you are opening up a new world to me. Positively I did not know that there were such things as these; even you are a new type to me. And here am I, who have been living with my head in the clouds, regarding the universe as being made up of people like the Dashwoods and others, whose privilege and duty it is to serve them. How selfish!" "Well, you are not selfish now," Connie said. "You had the pluck to turn out and get your own living rather than eat what you call the bread of charity." "Pride," Mary exclaimed, "every bit of it pride. I was bitterly wounded with a trick that Fortune had played upon me; in my arrogance, I left home, though one kind heart bleeds for me. I only had my narrow point of view. And I hate this kind of thing, I could cry aloud at the sordidness of it. I can't endure it patiently as you do." Connie laughed unsteadily. A mist crept into her eyes. "It is because I have schooled myself," she said. "It is so weak to complain. But there are times when I should like to die and make an end of it all." Again Mary had nothing to say. She was learning to plumb the depths of her own selfishness by comparison with others. She was beginning dumbly to understand what Ralph Darnley must think of her. And yet he had made no secret of his love and affection. She was strangely silent as she walked along with Connie in the darkness of the evening. They came at length to a mean little street leading off Tottenham Court Road, and before a fairly respectable house there, Connie stopped. Presently Mary found herself shaking hands with a tall, thin girl, who gave her the strange impression that her new acquaintance was made of some fragile china. Her clear skin was deadly pale, and the dark eyes seemed to burn in the face like sombre flames. The slender frame was racked now and then by distressing fits of coughing. Yet there was a subtle strength and power about the girl that appealed to Mary. Here was a girl after her own heart, one who would struggle to the end, and if she had to die she would fall in her tracks without a murmur. Yet everything was against her. She had no natural advantages like Mary. There was more shame for the latter. Hitherto she had lived entirely for herself; her bounties had been dispensed with a haughty hand. She had never dreamed of a kingdom inhabited by such brave, pure souls as these. Despite the shabby little sitting-room it was impossible to mistake Grace Cameron for anything but a lady. She had a smile of sweet sympathy as Connie made the necessary introduction, and spoke of Mary as another of the elect who had come into the arena.