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 to go on with. That’s what my unhappiness amounts to, Mary.”

There were two reasons that kept Mary very silent during this speech, and drew curiously straight lines upon her face. In the first place, Ralph made no mention of marriage; in the second, he was not speaking the truth.

“I don’t think it will be difficult to find a cottage,” she said, with cheerful hardness, ignoring the whole of this statement. “You’ve got a little money, haven’t you? Yes,” she concluded, “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a very good plan.”

They crossed the field in complete silence. Ralph was surprised by her remark and a little hurt, and yet, on the whole, rather pleased. He had convinced himself that it was impossible to lay his case truthfully before Mary, and, secretly, he was relieved to find that he had not parted with his dream to her. She was, as he had always found her, the sensible, loyal friend, the woman he trusted; whose sympathy he could count upon, provided he kept within certain limits. He was not displeased to find that those limits were very clearly marked. When they had crossed the next hedge she said to him:

“Yes, Ralph, it’s time you made a break. I’ve come to the same conclusion myself. Only it won’t be a country cottage in my case; it’ll be America. America!” she cried. “That’s the place for me! They'll teach me something about organizing a movement there, and I'll come back and show you how to do it.”

If she meant consciously or unconsciously to belittle the seclusion and security of a country cottage, she did not succeed; for Ralph’s determination was genuine. But she made him visualize her in her own character, so that he looked quickly at her, as she walked a little in front of him across the ploughed field; for the first time that morning he saw her independently of him or of his preoccupation with Katharine. He seemed to see her