ind on
your mid-Victorian clothes," he said, "and live up to them--in your
language."

Delilah laughed. "Well, I told the truth if I didn't do it elegantly.
We are both working for things which we want. Mary wants Romance and I
want social recognition."

Leila sighed. "It isn't always what we want that we get, is it?" she
asked, and Porter answered with decision, "It is not. Life throws us
usually brickbats instead of bouquets."

Colin did not agree. "Life gives us sometimes more than we deserve.
It has given me that picture of Miss Jeliffe. And I consider that a
pretty big slice of good fortune."

"You're a nice boy, Colin," Delilah told him, "and I like you--and I
like your philosophy. I fancy life is giving me as much as I deserve."

The others were silent. Life was not giving Leila or Porter or Mary at
that moment the things that they wanted. Porter's demands on destiny
were definite. He wanted Mary. Leila wanted Barry. Mary did not know
what she wanted; she only knew that she was unsatisfied.

Porter took Leila home first, then drove Mary and Aunt Isabelle back
through the park to the old house on the hill.

"I'm coming in," he said, as he helped Mary out of the car.

"But it is so late, Porter."

"I've been here lots of times as late as this. I won't be sent home,
Mary, not to-night."

Aunt Isabelle, tired and sleepy, went at once up-stairs. Mary sat on
the porch with Porter. Below them lay the city in the white moonlight.
For a while they were silent, then Porter said, suddenly:

"Mary, there's something I want to tell you. You may think that I'm
interfering in your affairs, but I can't help it. I can't see you
doing things which will make you unhappy."

"I'm not unhappy. What do you mean, Porter?"

"You will be--if you go on as you are going. Mary--I took you to
Colin's to-night on purpose, so that you could see the picture of the
little saint in red, the Fra Angelico one."

"Yes."

"You know what you said about her--that she had such a trustful,
childish face?"

"Yes."

"That was the picture of Roger Poole's wife, Mary."

She sat as still in her white dress as a marble statue.

At last she asked, "How do you know?"

"Quale told me. I fancy he hadn't heard that Poole had lived here, and
that we knew him. So he let the name drop carelessly."

"Well?"

He turned on her flaming. "I know what you mean by that tone, Mary.
But you're unjust. You think I've been medd