It is so easy for the world's heroines to
remain calm against attack. My Mary was made of commoner stuff--the
wretched, baser clay of which not I, but my neighbours, not you, but
your acquaintances, are made.
Bob believed she would. He cried, "Send her away! Why the devil don't
you send her away?"; gathered his skirts; fled for the safety of a
locked door.
Mrs. Chater believed she would. Mrs. Chater plunged across the hall;
stood, an impassable and panting guardian, upon the lowermost step.
Her outstretched arm stayed Mary; a voice announced, "The cab'm."
My Mary stood a moment; little fists clenched, flashing eyes; blinked
against the premonition of a rush of tears; then, as they came, turned
for the door.
"Go!" trumpeted Mrs. Chater. "Go!"
Mary was upon the mat when Angela and David made a little rush; caught
her skirts. The alarming scenes had hurtled in sequence too rapid and
too violent to be by the children understood. But a scrap here and a
scrap there they had caught, retained, correctly interpreted; and the
whole, though it supplied no reason, told clearly that their adored
Mary was going from them.
"You're coming back soon, aren't you?" David cried.
"You're not going away, are you, Miss Humf'ay?" implored Angela.
Mrs. Chater shrilled: "Children, come away.
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