Contrary Mary

He stopped as the curtain went up, and darkness descended. But

presently out of the darkness came his whisper, "I want you--any way."

They had supper after the play, Leila and the General joining them at

Porter's compelling invitation.

Pending the serving of the supper, Barry detained Leila for a moment in

a palm-screened corner of the sumptuous corridor.

"That girl from New York, Leila--Miss Jeliffe? What is her first name?"

"Delilah."

"It isn't."

Leila's light laughter mocked him. "Yes, it is, Barry. She calls

herself Lilah and pronounces it as I do mine. But she signs her

cheques De-lilah."

Barry recovered. "Where did you meet her?"

"At school. Her father's in Congress. They are coming to us

to-morrow. Dad has asked me to invite them as house guests until they

find an apartment."

"Well, she's dazzling."

Leila flamed. "I don't see how you can like--her kind----"

"Little lady," he admonished, "you're jealous. I danced four dances

with her, and only one with your new pink slippers."

She stuck out a small foot. "They're lovely, Barry," she said,

repentantly, "and I haven't thanked you."

"Why should you? Just look pleasant, please. I've had enough scolding

for one day."

"Who scolded?"

"Mary."

Leila glanced into the dining-room, where, in her slim fairness, Mary

was like a pale lily, among all the tulip women, and poppy women, and

orchid women, and night-shade women of the social garden.

"If Mary scolded you, you deserved it," she said, loyally.

"You too? Leila, if you don't stick to me, I might as well give up."

His face was moody, brooding. She forgot the Delilah-dancer of the

afternoon, forgot everything except that this wonderful man-creature

was in trouble.

"Barry," she said, simply, like a child, "I'll stick to you until

I--die."

He looked down into the adoring eyes. "I believe you would, Leila," he

said, with a boyish catch in his voice; "you're the dearest thing on

God's great earth!"

The chilled fruit was already on the table when they went in, and it

was followed by a chafing dish over which the General presided.

Red-faced and rapturous, he seasoned and stirred, and as the result of

his wizardry there was placed before them presently such plates of

Creole crab as could not be equaled north of New Orleans.

"To cook," said the General, settling himself back in his chair and

beaming at Mary who was beside him, "one must be a poet--to me there is

more in that dish than merely something to eat. There's color--the red

of tomatoes, the green of the peppers, the pale ivory of mushrooms, the

snow white of the crab--there's atmosphere--aroma."