“Humph!” Teresa mumbled vaguely. She was not interested in the difference of temperament; she was interested in Mary’s fortune, and how she was going to use it. She pushed aside her cup and plate, leant her arms on the table, and cupped her chin in her hands.
“Look here, Mary—what are you going to do?”
“I’m going away.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know! Anywhere. London. Paris. It doesn’t matter very much. I want just to be away from Chumley, and to be free. To go where I like, and do as I like.”
“Alone?”
Mary’s face twitched.
“I have no friends.”
“You have acquaintances. They would be glad... lots of people would be glad to go with you.”
“No! They are part of the old life. They would stare and take notes. They would write home and gossip. It would be no use going away—I should not escape. The old atmosphere would be round me all the time. I shall go alone.”