"Yes, it was. You thought I was with the old crowd. I might as well

go with them as to have you always thinking it."

"I'm not always thinking it."

"Yes, you are, too," hotly.

"Barry--please----"

He stood uneasily at the foot of the stairs. "You can't understand how

I feel. If you were a boy----"

She caught him up. "If I were a boy? Barry, if I were a boy I'd make

the world move. Oh, you | men, you have things all your own way, and

you let it stand still----"

She had raised her voice, and her words floating up and up reached the

ears of Roger Poole, who appeared at the top of the stairway.

There was a moment's startled silence, then Mary spoke.

"Barry, it is Mr. Poole. You don't know each other, do you?"

The two men, one going up the stairway, the other coming down, met and

shook hands. Then Barry muttered something about having to run away

and dress, and Roger and Mary were left alone.

It was the first time that they had seen each other, since the night of

the wedding. They had arranged everything by telephone, and on the

second short visit that Roger had made to his rooms, Susan Jenks had

looked after him.

It seemed to Roger now that, like the house, Mary had taken on a new

and less radiant aspect. She looked pale and tired. Her dress of

white with its narrow edge of dark fur made her taller and older. Her

fair waved hair was parted at the side and dressed compactly without

ornament or ribbon. He was again, however, impressed by the almost

frank boyishness of her manner as she said: "I want you to meet Aunt Isabella. She can't hear very well, so you'll

have to raise your voice."

As they went in together, Mary was forced to readjust certain opinions

which she had formed of her lodger. The other night he had been

divorced from the dapper youths of her own set by his lack of

up-to-dateness, his melancholy, his air of mystery.

But to-night he wore a loose coat which she recognized at once as good

style. His dark hair which had hung in an untidy lock was brushed back

as smoothly and as sleekly as Gordon Richardson's. His dark eyes had a

waked-up look. And there was a hint of color in his clean-shaven olive

cheeks.

"I came down," he told her as he walked beside her, "to thank you for

the coffee, for the hyacinths; for the fire, for the--welcome that my

room gave me."




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