He looked at her with a cold smile in his dark, sunken eyes, and she turned from him indignantly.

When they bade her good-bye at the station, she begged them to write to her.

“No, no!” said Louis, the handsome younger brother.  “If ever you want us, we are there.  If you write, we will answer.  But you won’t need to think about us yet awhile.  Good-bye!”

And he pressed her hand with a smile.

The good fellow had put all his own dreams and hopes out of sight with a firm hand since the arrival of her great news.  Indeed, Marcella realised in them all that she was renounced.  Louis and Edith spoke with affection and regret.  As to Anthony, from the moment that he set eyes upon the maid sent to escort her to Mellor, and the first-class ticket that had been purchased for her, Marcella perfectly understood that she had become to him as an enemy.

“They shall see—­I will show them!” she said to herself with angry energy, as the train whirled her away.  And her sense of their unwarrantable injustice kept her tense and silent till she was roused to a childish and passionate pleasure by a first sight of the wide lawns and time-stained front of Mellor.

* * * * *

Of such elements, such memories of persons, things, and events, was Marcella’s reverie by the window made up.  One thing, however, which, clearly, this report of it has not explained, is that spirit of energetic discontent with her past in which she had entered on her musings.  Why such soreness of spirit?  Her childhood had been pinched and loveless; but, after all, it could well bear comparison with that of many another child of impoverished parents.  There had been compensations all through—­and were not the great passion of her Solesby days, together with the interest and novelty of her London experience, enough to give zest and glow to the whole retrospect?  Ah! but it will be observed that in this sketch of Marcella’s schooldays nothing has been said of Marcella’s holidays.  In this omission the narrative has but followed the hasty, half-conscious gaps and slurs of the girl’s own thought.  For Marcella never thought of those holidays and all that was connected with them in detail, if she could possibly avoid it.  But it was with them, in truth, and with what they implied, that she was so irritably anxious to be done when she first began to be reflective by the window; and it was to them she returned with vague, but still intense consciousness when the rush of active reminiscence died away.

* * * * *

That surely was the breakfast bell ringing, and with the dignified ancestral sound which was still so novel and attractive to Marcella’s ear.  Recalled to Mellor Park and its circumstances, she went thoughtfully downstairs, pondering a little on the shallow steps of the beautiful Jacobean staircase. Could she ever turn her back upon those holidays?  Was she not rather, so to speak, just embarked upon their sequel, or second volume?