"You forget your charm," Mary reminded her. "It is the most potent of all."
Lady Agatha suddenly blushed. It was the first time Mary had seen her blush.
"Charm—oh, come, Mary! Why not beauty if you are inclined to flatter?"
"Yes, indeed; why not beauty?" Mary repeated, looking at her with loving eyes of admiration.
"A big, black, bounding beggar!" Lady Agatha quoted against herself merrily.
But Mary was not inclined to make any further excursions from home. The soul in her was chilled by her recent experiences. In her hurt and unhappy state the little house at Wistaria Terrace seemed most desirable. It gave her satisfaction to note the discomforting things about her—the bare floor, the windows that shook and rattled, the ill-fitting doors, the ugliness of the painted dressing-table from which the paint had long departed, the chipped jug and basin that did not match each other. She liked it all, even the carelessness about meals, for there was love with it. Her younger sisters growing up had a kind of worship for Mary. They served her out of pure love. She was not allowed to do anything for herself. Yes, for the present, at least, home was best. She could go out and earn money and bring it home to them. She would stay henceforth in the world into which she had been born. She would make no more excursions.
However, these thoughts of hers were rendered vain by the fact that Walter Gray positively took Lady Agatha's part against her. There was no room for Mary in the cramped life of Wistaria Terrace. She had brains and beauty and sympathy. The opportunity to make use of these gifts was given her. She must not reject it.
The thing was put on a business basis. Mary was to be Lady Agatha's secretary, with a handsome salary. "I shall work you till you cry out," her Ladyship promised, and it seemed like enough to be true. She was talking already of writing a novel when they should retire to the country. Her energy overflowed. She was perpetually seeking new outlets for it. Her secretary was not likely to enjoy a sinecure.
"No one but you could have sent me from you again," Mary said to her father, in tender reproach.
"It is for your good, Moll. You have outgrown Wistaria Terrace. We could not long have contented you."