k tower or two showed yellow faces;
the great public buildings were clear-cut like cardboard.

Roger drew a deep breath. "If there were nothing else," he said, "I
should take the rooms for this."

And now from the lower hall came the clamor of voices.

"_Mary! Mary!_"

"I must not keep you," he said at once.

"_Mary!_"

Poised for flight, she asked, "Can you find your way down alone? I'll
go by the front stairs and head them off."

"_Mary----!_"

With a last flashing glance she was gone, and as he groped his way down
through the darkness, it came to him as an amazing revelation that she
had taken his coming as a thing to be thankful for, and it had been so
many years since a door had been flung wide to welcome him.

CHAPTER II

_In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason for
Renting a Gentleman's Library._

In spite of the fact that Mary Ballard had seemed to Roger Poole like a
white-winged angel, she was not looked upon by the family as a beauty.
It was Constance who was the "pretty one," and tonight as she stood in
her bridal robes, gazing up at her sister who was descending the stairs,
she was more than pretty. Her tender face was illumined by an inner
radiance. She was two years older than Mary, but more slender, and her
coloring was more strongly emphasized. Her eyes were blue and her hair
was gold, as against the gray-green and dull fairness of Mary's hair.
She seemed surrounded, too, by a sort of feminine _aura_, so that one
knew at a glance that here was a woman who would love her home, her
husband, her children; who would lean upon masculine protection, and
suffer from masculine neglect.

Of Mary Ballard these things could not be said at once. In spite of her
simplicity and frankness, there was about her a baffling atmosphere. She
was like a still pool with the depths as yet unsounded, an uncharted
sea--with its mystery of undiscovered countries.

The contrast between the sisters had never been more marked than when
Mary, leaning over the stair-rail, answered the breathless, "Dearest,
where have you been?" with her calm:

"There's plenty of time, Constance."

And Constance, soothed as always by her sister's tranquillity, repeated
Mary's words for the benefit of a ponderously anxious Personage in amber
satin.

"There's plenty of time, Aunt Frances."

That Aunt Frances _was_ a P