“Uncle,” she said, “I want to talk to you for a few minutes, if I may.”

“Go ahead,” he answered.  “No fear of our being interrupted.  I shall speak to those girls seriously about getting up.  Now, what is it?

“I want to earn my own living, uncle,” she said, quietly.

He looked over his spectacles at her.

“Eh?”

“I want to earn my own living,” she repeated.  “I have been looking about for a means of doing so, and I think that I have succeeded.”

Mr. Bullsom took off his spectacles and wiped them carefully.

“Earn your own living, eh!” he repeated.  “Well!  Go on!”

Mary leaned across the table towards him.

“Don’t think that I am not grateful for all you have done for me, uncle,” she said.  “I am, indeed.  Only I have felt lately that it was my duty to order my life a little differently.  I am young and strong, and able to work.  There is no reason why I should be a burden upon any one.”

She found his quietness ominous, but she did not flinch.

“I am not accomplished enough for a governess, or good-tempered enough for a companion,” she continued, “but I believe I have found something which I can do.  I have written several short stories for a woman’s magazine, and they have made me a sort of offer to do some regular work for them.  What they offer would just keep me.  I want to accept.”

“Where should you live?” he asked.

“In London!”

“Alone?

“There is a girls’ club in Chelsea somewhere.  I should go there at first, and then try and share rooms with another girl.”

“How much a week will they give you?”

“Twenty-eight shillings, and I shall be allowed to contribute regularly to the magazine at the usual rates.  I ought to make at least forty shillings a week.”

Mr. Bullsom sighed.

“Is this owing to any disagreement between you and the girls?” he asked, sharply.

“Certainly not,” she answered.

“You ain’t unhappy here?  Is there anything we could do?  I don’t want to lose you.”

Mary was touched.  She had expected ridicule or opposition.  This was more difficult.

“Of course I am not unhappy,” she answered.  “You and aunt have been both of you most generous and kind to me.  But I do feel that a busy life—­and I’m not a bit domestic, you know would be good for me.  I believe, uncle, if you were in my place you would feel just like me.  If you were able to, I expect you’d want to earn your own living.”

“You shall go!” he said, decidedly.  “I’ll help you all I can.  You shall have a bit down to buy furniture, if you want it, or an allowance till you feel your way.  But, Mary, I’m downright sorry.  No, I’m not blaming you.  You’ve a right to go.  I—­I don’t believe I’d live here if I were you.

“You are very good, uncle,” Mary said, gratefully.  “And you must remember it isn’t as though I were leaving you alone.  You have the girls.”