“It is no use blinking the fact,” she said straight out, “that Francie is no better than she should be.  I can’t understand it; no Pennycuick that ever I heard of took that line before.  She has a dog’s life with that ruffian, no doubt; and of course the poor child never had a chance to enjoy the right thing in the right way—­though that was her own fault—­”

“I don’t think,” Mary broke in, “that anything is anybody’s fault.”

“That’s a most dangerous heathen doctrine, my dear, but I’ll admit there’s something in it.  Poor Francie! she was born at a disadvantage, with that fascinating face of hers set on the foundation of so light a character.  She was too pretty, to start with.  The pretty people get so spoiled, so filled with their own conceit, that they grow up expecting a world made on purpose for them.  They grab right and left, if the plums don’t fall into their mouths directly they open them, because it gets to be a sort of matter of course that they should have everything, and do exactly as they like.”

“And the plain ones—­they are born at a worse disadvantage still.”

“No, they are not.  Look at Rose.  Francie, with her gilded wretchedness, thinks Rosie’s lot quite despicable; but I can tell you, Molly, she is the most utterly comfortable and contented little soul on the face of this earth.  She would not change places with a queen.”  “But Rose is not plain.  Rose is the happy medium.  And they are the lucky ones—­the inconspicuous people—­the every-day sort—­”

“What’s luck?” Deb vaguely moralised.  “I suppose we make our luck.  It doesn’t depend on our faces, but on ourselves.”

“Ah, no!” Mrs Goldsworthy received the well-worn platitude with a laugh.  “We don’t make anything—­we are made.  It is just a dance of marionettes, Debbie.  Poor puppets of flesh and blood, treated as if they were just wood and nails and glue!  Who set us up to make a game of us like this?  Who does pull the strings, Debbie?  It is a mystery to me.”

Then Deb waited for what was coming next.

“Possibly it will be cleared up some day,” she murmured, putting out her strong, beautiful hand to touch her sister’s knee.  “Whether it is a fairy tale or not, one must cherish the hope—­”

“Not I,” Mary cut in swiftly—­that same Mary who was once conspicuous in her family for pious orthodoxy.  “No more experiments in human existence for me!  A few years of peace and cleanness, as I am—­as I now am—­I hope for that, and for nothing more; I don’t want anything more—­I’d rather not.  To be let alone for the rest of the time, and then to be done with it—­that sums up all the hope I have, or need.”

“Ah, my dear—­”

“No, Debbie, don’t look at me with those eyes—­don’t pity me in that tone of voice.  I am only a heathen against my will—­not so broken-hearted as not to care what happens to me, which I believe is what you think.  I am not even sorry—­I wish I was, but I can’t be; in fact, I am so happy, really, that I am going about in a sort of dream, trying to realise it”