The rivulet of cheerful words poured from the calm-faced woman with unheeding force. Each one of them fell upon her auditor with an unintended shock. Mary, who had almost forgotten the pseudonym under which she had been presented at the Settlement, could say nothing. She was carried up the steps and into the house, up the stairs and into the deserted sitting-room on the second floor; and there she sank limply into a wicker chair beside a magazine-littered table, tête-à-tête with her former benefactress.
Marian, all good intentions, rested her delicate chin upon her white hands.
"Now," she said, "I am anxious to hear all about you."
Mary, with a perplexed frown, looked hard at the floor.
"Why, there isn't much to tell, Miss Lennox," she replied.
"Nonsense. Of course there is, my dear. You must understand that I am interested in everything about you—in everything."
Mary's eyes sought, for a moment, the pure, cameo-like face. They could see no evil there, and they could see much kindliness.
"Well, then," she hesitated, "I don't know exactly where to begin."
"At the beginning, of course. How do you like your place?"
"Which place, Miss Lennox?"