Contrary Mary

"You blessed child," Mary said with a catch in her voice, "you mustn't

be so humble--it's enough to spoil any man."

"Not Barry," Leila said; "he loves me because I am so loving."

Oh, wisdom of the little heart. There might be men who could love for

the sake of conquest; there might be men who could meet coldness with

ardor, and affection with indifference. Barry was not one of these.

The sacred fire which burned in the heart of his sweet mistress had

lighted the flame in his own. It was Leila's love as well as Leila

that he wanted. And she knew and treasured the knowledge.

It was when Mary left that she said, with forced lightness, "You'll be

going soon, and what a summer you will have together."

It was on Leila's lips to cry, "But I want our life together to begin

now. What's one summer in a whole life of love?"

But she did not voice her cry. She kissed Mary and smiled wistfully,

and went back into the dusky room to dream of Barry--Barry her young

husband, with whom she had walked in her little yellow gown over the

hills and far away.

And while she dreamed, Barry, in Jerry Tuckerman's big blue car, was

flying over other hills, and farther away from Leila than he had ever

been in his life.

It was as Mary had feared. Barry's strength in his first resistance of

Jerry's importunities had made him over-confident, so that when, at the

end of the month, Jerry had returned and had pressed his claim, Barry

had consented to lunch with him.

At luncheon they met Jerry's crowd and Barry drank just one glass of

golden sparkling stuff.

But the one glass was enough to fire his blood--enough to change the

aspect of the world--enough to make him reckless, boisterous--enough to

make him consent to join at once Jerry's party in a motor trip to

Scotland.

In that moment the world of work receded, the world of which Leila was

the center receded--the life which had to do with lodgings and

primroses and Sheffield trays was faint and blurred to his mental

vision. But this life, which had to do with laughter and care-free

joyousness and forgetfulness, this was the life for a man who was a man.

Jerry was saying, "There will be the three of us and the chauffeur--and

we will take things in hampers and things in boxes, and things in

bottles."

Barry laughed. It was not a loud laugh, just a light boyish chuckle,

and as he rose and stood with his hand resting on the table, many eyes

were turned upon him. He was a handsome young American, his beautiful

blond head held high. "You mustn't expect," he said, still with that

light laughter, "that I am going to bring any bottles. Only thing I've

got is a tea-caddy. Honest--a tea-caddy, and a Sheffield tray."