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.
"You have my sympathy," the girl said with a pleasing smile, "I could wish a woman foe of mine no harder fate. Anybody can see that you have not been used to this kind of thing--you are too recently a commander to know the bitterness of being commanded by the canaille we frequently have to deal with. We cannot all meet our misfortunes as cheerfully as Connie does. But you will learn your lesson in time. Tell me, have you heard anything as to those last drawings of mine?"
"I have the money for them at any rate," Connie said without looking at the speaker. "Mr. Scudamore was very kind."
Grace Cameron drew a deep breath of relief, a wave of pink rose to her cheeks.
"They were dreadful," she whispered. "But I was so ill on Monday and Tuesday that I had to drag myself to the work. My hand shakes terribly still, and I have some kind of a commission that I must finish tomorrow. It is a design for the cover of a new penny weekly. I have the scheme sketched out, but I am afraid that I shall not be able to finish it. And I know that my mother is in great need of a few pounds. How hard it is to be like this."
The last few words rang out passionately. Connie patted the speaker's shoulder.
"Don't despair," she said, "give me the rough design and I will put in the colour. Take at least five hours! Well, what of that. Give us some supper presently--it matters little what time we get home in the morning. Mrs. Grundy has no terrors for the true and tried children of Bohemia."