I
On a spring afternoon, Mary at ease, novel in lap, let her mind flow over the years in their passing. Four had gone by since she had defied her family, in order to embrace a career, which in their view was full of peril. But in spite of that, so far she had escaped disaster. And fortune had been amazingly kind in the meantime.
On the table near Mary’s elbow were five cups on a tray, and opposite, also at ease, with her hands behind her shrewd head, was Milly Wren. Mary had just begun to share a very comfortable flat with Milly and Milly’s mother.
Milly herself, in Mary’s opinion, was more than worthy of her surroundings. Loyal, sympathetic, full of courage, she had served a far longer apprenticeship to success than Mary had. She had “made good” in the face of heavy odds.
Milly had not a great talent. Force of character and singleness of aim had brought her to the top, and only these, as she well knew, would keep her there. But with Mary it was a different story. All sorts of fairies had attended her birth. She had every gift for the career she had chosen, moreover, she had them in abundance. Milly, who had gone up the ladder a step at a time, would have been more than human had she not envied her friend the qualities she wore with the indifference of a regular royal queen.
The clock on the chimney-piece struck four.
“I’m feeling quite excited,” Milly suddenly remarked.
From the depths of the opposite chair came the note which for six months now had cast a spell upon London.
“He mustn’t know that,” laughed Mary. “Dignity, my child, touched with hauteur, is the prescription for a marquis. At least that’s according to the book of the words.” And she gayly waved the novel she had neglected for nearly an hour.
“Oh, Sonny,” said Milly Wren, “I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of the friend he is bringing, who is simply dying to know you.”