“Nonsense, Nelly!  Really, you oughtnt to say such things.”

“No.  I ought to keep both eyes tight shut so that I may be contented in that station to which it has pleased God to call me.”

“Imagine his proposing to marry her, Nell!  I am just as wicked as you; for I am very glad she refused; though I cant conceive why she did it.”

“Perhaps,” said Miss McQuinch, becoming excited, “she refused because she had too much good sense:  aye, and too much common decency to accept.  It is all very well for us fortunate good-for-nothings to resort to prostitution——­”

“Oh, Nelly!”

“—­I say, to prostitution, to secure ourselves a home and an income.  Somebody said openly in Parliament the other day that marriage was the true profession of women.  So it is a profession; and except that it is a harder bargain for both parties, and that society countenances it, I dont see how it differs from what we—­bless our virtuous indignation!—­stigmatize as prostitution. I dont mean ever to be married, I can tell you, Marian.  I would rather die than sell myself forever to a man, and stand in a church before a lot of people whilst George or somebody read out that cynically plain-spoken marriage service over me.”

“Stop Nelly!  Pray stop!  If you thought for a moment you would never say such awful things.”

“I thought we had agreed long ago that marriage is a mistake.”

“Yes; but that is very different to what you are saying now.”

“I cannot see——­”

“Pray stop, Nelly.  Dont go on in that strain.  It does no good; and it makes me very uncomfortable.”

“I’ll take it out in work,” said Nelly calmly, returning to her manuscript.  “I can see that, as you say, talking does no good.  All the more reason why I should have another try at earning my own living.  When I become a great novelist I shall say what I like and do what I please.  For the present I am your obedient, humble servant.”

At any other time Marian would have protested, and explained, and soothed.  Now she was too heavily preoccupied by her guilty conscience.  She strolled disconsolately to the window, and presently, seeing that Miss McQuinch was at work in earnest and had better not be disturbed, went off for a lonely walk.  It was a glorious afternoon; and nature heaped its peculiar consolations on her; so that she never thought of returning until the sun was close to the horizon.  As she came, tired, through the plantation, with the evening glow and the light wind, in which the branches were rustling and the leaves dropping, lulling her luxuriously, she heard some one striding swiftly along the path behind.  She looked back; but there was a curve in the way; and she could not see who was coming.  Then it occurred to her that it might be Conolly.  Dreading to face him after what had happened, she stole aside among the trees a little way, and sat down on a stone, hoping that he might pass by without seeing her.  The next moment he came round the curve, looking so resolute and vigorous that her heart became fainter as she watched him.  Just opposite where she sat, he stopped, having a clear view of the path ahead for some distance, and appeared puzzled.  Marian held her breath.  He looked to the left through the trees, then to the right, where she was.