haps, a little pale, but that the Mary of
to-day was different from the Mary if yesterday was not visible from
outward signs.

"I am going first to the dressmaker, to see about having that lovely
frock you bought me fitted for Delilah's tea dance; then I'll meet you
at Mrs. Carey's luncheon. And after that will be our drive with
Porter, and the private view at the Corcoran, then two teas, and later
the dinner at Mrs. Bigelow's. I'm afraid it will be pretty strenuous
for you, Constance."

"I sha'n't try to take in the teas. I'll come home and lie down before
I have to dress for dinner."

As she followed out her programme for the day, Mary was conscious that
she was doing it well. She made conscientious plans with her
dressmaker, she gave herself gayly to the light chatter of the
luncheon; during the drive she matched Porter's exuberant mood with her
own, she viewed the pictures and made intelligent comments.

After the view, Constance went home in Porter's car, and Mary was left
at a house on Dupont Circle. Porter's eyes had begged that she would
let him come with her, but she had refused to meet his eyes, and had
sent him off.

As she passed through the glimmer of the golden rooms, she bowed and
smiled to the people that she knew, she joked with Jerry Tuckerman, who
insisted on looking after her and getting her an ice. And then, as
soon as she decently could, she got away, and came out into the open
air, drawing a long breath, as one who has been caged and who makes a
break for freedom.

She did not go to the other tea. All day she had lived in a dream,
doing that which was required of her and doing it well. But from now
until the time that she must go home and dress for dinner, she would
give herself up to thoughts of Roger Poole.

She turned down Connecticut Avenue, and walking lightly and quickly
came at last to the old church, where all her life she had worshiped.
At this hour there was no service, and she knelt for a moment, then sat
back in her pew, glad of the sense of absolute immunity from
interruption.

And as she sat there in the stillness, one sentence from his letter
stood out.

"And now what meaning for me had the candles on the altar, what meaning
the voices in the choir? I had sung, too, in the light of the candles,
but it was ordained that my voice must be forever still."

This to Mary was the great tragedy--his loss of courage, his loss of
faith--his acceptance of a passive futur