emely
difficult to do, with Barry. "You certainly gave me that impression,"
she said.

"Yes; but that was two months ago," said Barry, off guard. A second
later he changed the topic abruptly by asking, "Did your roses come?"

"All of them," answered Sidney pleasantly. And vaguely conscious of
mischief in the air, but led on by some inexplicable whim, she pursued,
"Do you mean that it makes such a difference to you, Rogers being gone?"

Barry trimmed the four sides of a clipping with four clips of his
shears.

"Exactly," said he briefly. He banged a drawer shut, closed a book and
laid it aside, and stuck the brush into his glue-pot. "Getting enough
of dinner parties?" he asked then, cheerfully.

"Too much," said Sidney, wondering why she felt like a reprimanded
child. "And that reminds me: I am giving two dinners for the Von
Praags, you know. I can't manage everybody at once; I hate more than
ten people at a dinner. And you are asked to the first."

"I don't go much to dinners," Barry said.

"I know you don't; but I want you to come to this one," said Sidney.
"You'll love old Mr. von Praag. And Richard, the son, is a dear! I
really want you."

"He's an artist, too, isn't he?" said Barry without enthusiasm.

"Who, Richard?" she asked, something in his manner putting her a little
at a loss. "Yes; and he's very clever, and so nice! He's like a brother
to me."

Barry did not answer, but after a moment he said, scowling a little,
and not looking up:

"A fellow like that has pretty smooth sailing. Rich, the son of a big
man, traveling all he wants to, studio in New York, clubs--"

"Oh, Richard has his troubles," Sidney said. "His wife is very
delicate, and they lost their little girl... Are you angry with me
about anything, Barry?" she broke off, puzzled and distressed, for this
unresponsive almost sullen manner was unlike anything she had ever seen
in him.

But a moment later he turned toward her with his familiar sunny smile.

"Why didn't you say so before?" he said sheepishly.

"Say--?" she echoed bewilderedly. Then, with a sudden rush of
enlightenment, "Why, Barry, you're not JEALOUS?"

A second later she would have given much to have the words unsaid. They
faced each other in silence, the color mounting steadily in Sidney's
face.

"I didn't mean of ME," she stammered uncomfortably; "I meant of
everything. I thought--but it was a silly thing to say. It sounded--I
didn't think--"

"I don't know why