Whimsically it came to her that the four men in her life were opposed
in groups of two: Gordon and Porter stood arrayed on the side of
logical preferences; Barry and Roger on the side of illogical
sympathies.
Gordon had conveyed to her, in rather subtle fashion, his disapproval
of Roger. It was only in an occasional phrase, such as "Poor Poole,"
or "if all of his story were known." But Mary had grasped that, from
the standpoint of her brother-in-law, a man who had failed to fulfil
the promise of his youth might be dismissed as a social derelict.
As for Barry--the situation with regard to him had become acute. His
first disappearance after the coming of Constance had resulted in
Gordon's assuming the responsibility of the search for him. He had
found Barry in a little town on the upper Potomac, ostensibly on a
fishing trip, and again there was a need for fighting dragons.
But Gordon did not fight with the same weapons as Roger Poole. His
arguments had been shrewd, keen, but unsympathetic. And the result had
been a strained relation between him and Barry. The boy had felt
himself misunderstood. Gordon had sat in judgment. Constance had
tearfully agreed with Gordon, and Mary, torn between her sense of
Gordon's rightness, and her own championship of Barry, had been strung
to the point of breaking.
She turned from the window, and went up-stairs slowly. In the Sanctum,
Constance and Aunt Isabelle were sewing. At last Aunt Isabelle had
come into her own. She spent her days in putting fine stitches into
infinitesimal garments. There was about her constantly the perfume of
the sachet powder with which she was scenting the fine lawn and lace
which glorified certain baskets and bassinets. When she was not sewing
she was knitting--little silken socks for a Cupid's foot, little warm
caps, doll's size; puffy wool blankets on big wooden needles.
The Sanctum had taken on the aspect of a bower. Here Constance sat
enthroned--and in her gentleness reminded Mary more and more of her
mother. Here was always the sweetness of the flowers with which Gordon
kept his wife supplied; here, too, was an atmosphere of serene waiting
for a supreme event.
Mary, entering with Pittiwitz in her arms, tried to cast away her
worries on the threshold. She must not be out of tune with this
symphony. She smiled and sat down beside Constance. "Such lovely
little things," she said; "what can I do?"
It seemed that there was a debate on, relative to the suitability of
embroidery as against fine tucks.