Teresa sat silent, striving to grasp the extraordinary idea of Mary on her own, Mary going forth into the world, staying in hotels, wandering about bustling streets, alone, always alone... There was something pathetic in the prospect which pierced even to the preoccupied, girlish heart. She frowned, and racked her brains for illuminating suggestions. Where could Mary go? What could Mary do? To stay alone in an hotel, with no occupation to help one through the aimless hours, would be desolation, yet the mental searchings brought no solution. Honestly, Teresa could not think of one thing outside the Chumley radius, in which Mary took a flicker of interest. In imagination she entered a great restaurant, heard the babble of voices, the flare of the band, and beheld in a corner the dun-coloured figure of Mary, seated in solitary state at a flower-decked table. She saw the other visitors stream forth to their various pleasures, and Mary creep silently up the stairs. She saw Mary’s face peering disconsolately through dusty panes.
Breed a bird in a cage, and rear it there, and at the age of maturity throw open the door. The bird will fly and as it flies it will sing. It has its moment of joy, but when the moments have passed into days, its lifeless body falls to the ground. Liberty may come too late.
Teresa looked at her sister with puzzled, unhappy eyes.
“Mary! I don’t like it. You ought not to go alone. Those big places can be so desolate. You see all the other people talking and laughing together, and feel like a pelican in the wilderness. What would you do from morning till night? Don’t think I’m hinting; I wouldn’t come with you if you asked me, because of Dane, but do take someone! If you go alone, you’ll be bored to death.”
Mary rose from the table, the precious envelope in her hand, and turned towards the door.
“Very well, then,” she said quietly, “I will be bored. But I’ll be bored in my own way.”