Mary, then, should be told the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Her father should be told as much of it as he was likely to believe.
Ally, of course, mustn't have an inkling.
Mary herself had an inkling already when she appeared that evening in
the attic where Gwenda was packing a trunk. She had a new Bradshaw in
her hand.
"Peacock gave me this," said Mary. "He said you ordered it."
"So I did," said Gwenda.
"What on earth for?"
"To look up trains in."
"Why--is anybody coming?"
"Does anybody _ever_ come?"
Mary's face admitted her absurdity.
"Then"--she made it out almost with difficulty--"somebody must be
going away."
"How clever you are. Somebody _is_ going away."
Mary twisted her brows in her perplexity. She was evidently thinking
things.
"Do you mean--Steven Rowcliffe?"
"No, dear lamb." (What on earth had put Steven Rowcliffe into Mary's
head?) "It's not as bad as all that. It's only a woman. In fact, it's
only me."
Mary's face emptied itself of all expression; it became a blank
screen suddenly put up before the disarray of hurrying, eager things,
unclothed and unexpressed.
"I'm going to stay with Mummy."
Gwenda closed the lid of the trunk and sat on it.
(Perturbation was now in Mary's face.)
"You can't, Gwenda. Papa'll never let you go."
"He can't stop me."
"What on earth are you going for?"
"Not for my own amusement, though it sounds amusing.
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