Mary filled it, and, her hand shaking from her inward excitement, let
the alcohol overflow on the tray and on the kettle frame. She asked
for a match and Gordon gave her one.
Then, nobody knew how it happened! The flames seemed to sweep up in a
blue sheet toward the lace frills in the front of Mary's gown. It
leaped toward her face. Constance screamed. Then Roger reached her,
and she was in his arms, her face crushed against the thickness of his
coat, his hands snatching at her frills.
It was over in a moment. The flames were out. Very gently, he loosed
his arms. She lay against his shoulder white and still. Her face was
untouched, but across her throat, which the low collar had left
exposed, was a hot red mark. And a little lock of hair was singed at
one side, her frills were in ruins.
He put her into a chair, and they gathered around her--a solicitous
group. Porter knelt beside her. "Mary, Mary," he kept saying, and she
smiled weakly, as his voice broke on "Contrary Mary."
Gordon had saved the table from destruction. But the flame had caught
the lilies, crisping them, and leaving them black. Constance was
shaken by the shock, and Aunt Frances kept asking wildly, "How did it
happen?"
"I spilled the alcohol when I filled it," Mary said. "It was a silly
thing to do--if I had had on one of my thinner gowns----" She
shuddered and stopped.
"I shall send you an electric outfit to-morrow," Porter announced.
"Don't fool with that thing again, Mary."
Roger stood behind her chair, with his arms folded on the top and said
nothing. There was really nothing for him to say, but there were many
things to think. He had saved that dear face from flame or flaw, the
dear eyes had been hidden against his shoulder--his fingers smarted
where he had clutched at her burning frills.
Porter Bigelow might take possession of her now, he might give her
electric outfits, he might call her by her first name, but it had not
been Porter who had saved her from the flames; it had not been Porter
who had held her in his arms.