Mary flashed a glance at him. His voice had changed. Delilah was
coming toward them. "There's material I like to work with," he said,
"there's something more than paint or canvas--living, breathing beauty."
"He's saying things about you," Mary said, as Delilah joined them.
Delilah, coloring faintly, cast down her eyes. "I'm afraid of him,
Mary," she said.
Colin laughed. "You're not afraid of any one."
"Yes, I am. You analyze my mental processes in such a weird fashion.
You are always reading me like a book."
"A most interesting book," Colin's lashes quivered, "with lovely
illustrations."
They laughed, and swept away into a brisk walk, followed by curious
eyes.
If to others Mary's radiance seemed a miracle of returning health, to
Porter Bigelow it was no miracle. Nothing could have more completely
rung the knell of his hopes than this radiance.
Her attitude toward him was irreproachable. She was kinder, indeed,
than she had been in the days when he had tried to force his claims
upon her. She seemed to be trying by her friendliness to make up for
something which she had withdrawn from him, and he knew that nothing
could ever make up.
So it came about that he spent less and less of his time with her, and
more and more with Leila--Leila who needed comforting, and who welcomed
him with such sweet and clinging dependence--Leila who hung upon his
advice, Leila who, divining his hurt, strove by her sweet sympathy to
help him.
Thus they came in due time to London. And when Leila and her father
left for the German baths, Porter went with them.
It was when he said "Good-bye" to Mary that his voice broke.
"Dear Contrary Mary," he said, "the old name still fits you. You never
could, and you never would, and now you never will."
Followed for Mary quiet days with Constance and the beautiful baby,
days in which the sisters were knit together by the bonds of mutual
grief. The little Mary-Constance was a wonderful comfort to both of
them; unconscious of sadness, she gurgled and crowed and beamed,
winning them from sorrowful thoughts by her blandishments, making
herself the center of things, so that, at last, all their little world
seemed to revolve about her.
And always in these quiet days, Mary looked for a letter from across
the high seas, and at last it came in a blue envelope.
It arrived one morning when she was at breakfast with Constance and
Gordon. Handed to her with other letters, she left it unopened and
laid it beside her plate.