"Very sorry, miss," he said. "Don't disturb the other lady. I'll keep an eye on you till I go off my beat at seven o'clock." The man touched his helmet and passed silently on. The incident touched Mary and brought the tears to her eyes. She was surprised to find how the once unwonted tears rose to her lids. She did not realise perhaps how steadily the ice was melting from around her heart. But she did realise what a great palpitating thing the life of the town was, its cruelties and its misfortunes, and the tender touches that spring from the impulses of a common humanity. Mary was learning her lesson. She sat there till the sun glinted on the bosom of the Thames; she saw the barges gliding down with the tide; she watched the first rush of cabs from the stations. And ever and anon the cool vision of Dashwood rose up before her. If she were at home now she would be out in the garden gathering roses to decorate the huge bowls in the drawing-room. She wondered if the Blois was out under her window, and whether Clegg, the head gardener, had looked after the new phloxes properly. She could see it all now as it would be in the dewy sunlight. Well, if the worst came to the worst, she could go back to the dower house again, but she would not go alone. Connie should accompany her and Grace Cameron. It would be a glorious thing to take the pallid, hollow-eyed painter down there, and send her back to her beloved work with an elastic step and the light of health glowing in her brown, ambitious eyes. Mary was beginning to understand what wealth could do and what glorious privileges it possessed. She began to understand what Ralph Darnley had been thinking about her. Well, the time would come when Ralph should learn his mistake. All these things, and more, Mary dreamed of as she sat patiently there with Connie's head on her shoulder. The latter stirred presently, and opened her eyes to the glory of the day. It was past seven now, and the greatest city in the world was awake to the struggle for existence. It was some little time before Connie's mind was clear enough to grasp the situation. "I have been asleep for three hours," she exclaimed. "What an intolerable burden you must have found me. Why didn't you wake me?" "Perhaps I have been dreaming myself," Mary smiled. "Anyway, I did not seem to notice. And there was a policeman who was very kind. I was watching the day break over the river, and it took me back to the old home. It seemed to me, Connie, that I had not been as frank with you as I might. Let me tell you why I left home. It will be a new experience for me to have a girl friend to love and confide in." They sat for an hour longer, and Mary told her story. She was surprised at the ease and fluency with which the narrative came from her. And she was surprised, too, to find how much better she felt for the telling.