“We’ll be back in a moment,” Mary flung over her head to Miss Fortescue.  They proceeded then through passages, peering into dark rooms, looking behind curtains, Barbara following behind her friend, who seemed to be moved by a rather aimless intention of finding something to do that she shouldn’t.  They finally arrived at Mrs. Adams’s private and particular sitting-room, a place that may be said, in the main, to stand as a protest against the rule of the ancient philosopher, being all pink and flimsy and fragile with precious vases and two post-impressionist pictures (a green apple tree one, the other a brown woman), and lace cushions and blue bowls with rose leaves in them.  Barbara had never been into this room before, nor had she ever in all her seven years seen anything so lovely.

“Mother says I’m never to come in here,” announced Mary.  “But I do—­lots.  Isn’t it pretty?”

“P’r’aps we oughtn’t——­” began Barbara.

“Oh, yes, we ought,” answered Mary scornfully.  “Always you and your ‘oughtn’t.’”

She turned, and her shoulders brushed a low bracket that was close to the door.  A large Nankin vase was at her feet, scattered into a thousand pieces.  Even Mary’s proud indifference was stirred by this catastrophe, and she was down on her knees in an instant, trying to pick up the pieces.  Barbara stared, her eyes wide with horror.

“Oh, Mary,” she gasped.

“You might help instead of just standing there!”

Then the door opened and, like the avenging gods from Olympus, in came the two ladies, eagerly, with smiles.

“Now I must just show you,” began Mrs. Adams.  Then the catastrophe was discovered—­a moment’s silence, then a cry from the poor lady:  “Oh, my vase!  It was priceless!” (It was not, but no matter.)

About Barbara the air clung so thick with catastrophe that it was from a very long way indeed that she heard Mary’s voice: 

“Barbara didn’t mean-----”

“Did you do this, Barbara?” her mother turned round upon her.

“You know, Mary, I’ve told you a thousand times that you’re not to come in here!” this from Mrs. Adams, who was obviously very angry indeed.

Mary was on her feet now and, as she looked across at Barbara, there was in her glance a strange look, ironical, amused, inquisitive, even affectionate.  “Well, mother, I knew we mustn’t.  But Barbara wanted to look so I said we’d just peep, but that we weren’t to touch anything, and then Barbara couldn’t help it, really; her shoulder just brushed the shelf——­” and still as she looked there was in her eyes that strange irony:  “Well, now you see me as I am—­I’m bored by all this pretending.  It’s gone on long enough.  Are you going to give me away?”

But Barbara could do nothing.  Her whole world was there, like the Nankin vase, smashed about her feet, as it never, never would be again.

“So you did this, Barbara?” Mrs. Flint said.