Contrary Mary

Grace's eyes sparkled. "Oh, wise Delilah, you haven't drifted so very

far away from my dreams. Where did you get your wisdom?"

"I'm learning things from Colin Quale. We study types together. It's

great fun for me, but he's perfectly serious."

Colin Quale was Delilah's artist. "Why didn't you bring him?"

Constance asked.

"Because he doesn't belong in this family group; and anyhow I had

something for him to do. He's making a sketch of the gown I am to wear

at the White House garden party. It will keep him busy for the

afternoon."

"Delilah," Leila looked up from her worship of Mary-Constance, "I don't

believe you ever see in people anything but the way they look."

"I don't, duckie. To me--you are a sort of family art gallery. I hang

you up in my mind, and you make a rather nice little collection."

Barry, coming in, caught up her words, with something of his old

vivacity.

"The baby belongs to the Dutch school--with that nose."

There was a chorus of protest.

"She looks like you," Delilah told him. "Except for her nose, she's a

Ballard. There's nothing of her father in her, except her beautiful

disposition."

She flashed a challenging glance at Gordon. He stiffened. Such women

as Delilah Jeliffe might have their place in the eternal scheme of

femininity, but he doubted it.

"She is a Ballard even in that," he said, formally; "it is Constance

whose disposition is beyond criticism, not mine."

"And now that you've carried off Constance, you're going to take

Barry," Delilah reproached him.

Leila dropped the baby's hand.

"Yes," Gordon discussed the subject with evident reluctance, "he's

going over with me, to learn the business--he may never have a better

opportunity."

The light went out of Barry's eyes. He left the little group, wandered

to the window, and stood looking out.

"Mary will go next," Delilah prophesied. "With Constance and Barry on

the other side, she won't be able to keep away."

Mary shook her head. "What would Aunt Isabelle and Susan Jenks and

Pittiwitz do without me?"

"What would I do without you?" Porter demanded, boldly. "Don't put

such ideas in her head, Delilah; she's remote enough as it is."

But Mary was not listening. Barry had slipped from the room, and

presently she followed him. Leila had seen him go, and had looked

after him longingly, but of late she had seemed timid in her public

demonstrations; it was as if she felt when she was under the eye of

others that by some sign or look she might betray her secret.