e not so
irresponsible, I might do something for him. But Barry is such a
will-o'-the-wisp."

Aunt Isabelle went on with her mending, and Aunt Frances again pounced
upon her.

"And it isn't just that he is irresponsible. He's---- Did you notice
on Christmas Day, Isabelle--that after dinner he wasn't himself?"

Aunt Isabelle had noticed. And it was not the first time. Her quick
eyes had seen things which Mary had thought were hidden. She had not
needed ears to tell the secret which was being kept from her in that
house.

Yet her sense of loyalty sealed her lips. She would not tell Frances
anything. They were dear children.

"He's just a boy, Frances," she said, deprecatingly, "and I am sorry
that General Dick put temptation in his way."

"Don't blame the General. If Barry's weak, no one can make him strong
but himself. I wish he had some of Porter Bigelow's steadiness. Mary
won't look at Porter, and he's dead in love with her."

"Perhaps in time she may."

"Mary's like her father," Aunt Frances said shortly. "John Ballard
might have been rich when he died, if he hadn't been such a dreamer.
Mary calls herself practical--but her head is full of moonshine."

Aunt Frances made this arraignment with an uncomfortable memory of a
conversation with Mary the day before. They had been shopping, and had
lunched together at a popular tea room. It was while they sat in their
secluded corner that Aunt Frances had introduced in a roundabout way
the topic which obsessed her.

"I am glad that Constance is so happy, Mary."

"She ought to be," Mary responded; "it's her honeymoon."

"If you would follow her example and marry Porter Bigelow, my mind
would be at rest."

"But I don't want to marry Porter, Aunt Frances. I don't want to marry
anybody."

Aunt Frances raised her gold lorgnette, "If you don't marry," she
demanded, "how do you expect to live?"

"I don't understand."

"I mean who is going to pay your bills for the rest of your life?
Barry isn't making enough to support you, and I can't imagine that
you'd care to be dependent on Gordon Richardson. And the house is
rapidly losing its value. The neighborhood isn't what it was when your
father bought it, and you can't rent rooms when nobody wants to come
out here to live. And then what? It's a woman's place to marry when
she meets a man who can take care of her--and you'll find that you
can't pick Porter Bigelows off every bush--not in Washington.