Contrary Mary

Whimsically it came to her that the four men in her life were opposed

in groups of two: Gordon and Porter stood arrayed on the side of

logical preferences; Barry and Roger on the side of illogical

sympathies.

Gordon had conveyed to her, in rather subtle fashion, his disapproval

of Roger. It was only in an occasional phrase, such as "Poor Poole,"

or "if all of his story were known." But Mary had grasped that, from

the standpoint of her brother-in-law, a man who had failed to fulfil

the promise of his youth might be dismissed as a social derelict.

As for Barry--the situation with regard to him had become acute. His

first disappearance after the coming of Constance had resulted in

Gordon's assuming the responsibility of the search for him. He had

found Barry in a little town on the upper Potomac, ostensibly on a

fishing trip, and again there was a need for fighting dragons.

But Gordon did not fight with the same weapons as Roger Poole. His

arguments had been shrewd, keen, but unsympathetic. And the result had

been a strained relation between him and Barry. The boy had felt

himself misunderstood. Gordon had sat in judgment. Constance had

tearfully agreed with Gordon, and Mary, torn between her sense of

Gordon's rightness, and her own championship of Barry, had been strung

to the point of breaking.

She turned from the window, and went up-stairs slowly. In the Sanctum,

Constance and Aunt Isabelle were sewing. At last Aunt Isabelle had

come into her own. She spent her days in putting fine stitches into

infinitesimal garments. There was about her constantly the perfume of

the sachet powder with which she was scenting the fine lawn and lace

which glorified certain baskets and bassinets. When she was not sewing

she was knitting--little silken socks for a Cupid's foot, little warm

caps, doll's size; puffy wool blankets on big wooden needles.

The Sanctum had taken on the aspect of a bower. Here Constance sat

enthroned--and in her gentleness reminded Mary more and more of her

mother. Here was always the sweetness of the flowers with which Gordon

kept his wife supplied; here, too, was an atmosphere of serene waiting

for a supreme event.

Mary, entering with Pittiwitz in her arms, tried to cast away her

worries on the threshold. She must not be out of tune with this

symphony. She smiled and sat down beside Constance. "Such lovely

little things," she said; "what can I do?"

It seemed that there was a debate on, relative to the suitability of

embroidery as against fine tucks.