His voice shook, and in that moment Mary felt nearer to him than ever

before.

"Oh, Gordon," she said, "I'm a horrid little thing. I've been jealous

because you took Constance away from me. But now I'm glad you--took

her, and I hope I'll live to dance at your--golden wedding." And then,

most unexpectedly, she found herself sobbing, and Gordon was patting

her on the back in a big-brotherly way, and saying that he didn't blame

her a bit, and that if anybody wanted to take Constance away from him,

they'd have to do it over his dead body.

Then he wrote the check, and Mary took it, and in the knowledge of his

munificence, felt the relief from certain financial burdens.

Before he left her, Gordon, hesitating, referred gravely to another

subject.

"And it will be better for you to have Constance here if Barry goes

away."

"Barry?" breathlessly.

"Yes. Don't you think he ought to go, Mary?"

"No," she said, stubbornly; "where could he go?"

"Anywhere away from Leila. He mustn't marry that child. Not yet--not

until he has proved himself a man."

The blow hit her heavily. Yet her sense of justice told her that he

was right.

"I can't talk about it," she said, unsteadily; "Barry is all I have

left."

He rose. "Poor little girl. We must see how we can work it out. But

we've got to work it out. It mustn't drift."

Left alone, Mary sat down at her desk and faced the future. With Roger

gone, and Barry going---And the Tower Rooms empty!

She shivered. Before her stretched the darkness and storms of a long

winter. Even Constance's coming would not make up for it. And yet a

year ago Constance had seemed everything.

She crossed the hall to the dining-room and looked out of the window.

The garden was dead. The fountain had ceased to play. But the little

bronze boy still flung his gay defiance to wind and weather.

Pittiwitz, following her, murmured a mewing complaint. Mary picked her

up; since Roger's going the gray cat had kept away from the emptiness

of the upper rooms.

With the little purring creature hugged close, Mary reviewed her

worries--the world was at sixes and sevens. Even Porter was proving

difficult. Since the Sunday when Roger had saved her from the fire,

Porter had adopted an air of possession. He claimed her at all times

and seasons; she had a sense of being caught in a web woven of kindness

and thoughtfulness and tender care, but none the less a web which held

her fast and against her will.




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