"I know I am." Constance was complacent. "And I knew you'd recognize
it, when you'd seen more of Gordon."

Mary felt a rising sense of rebellion. She was not in a mood to hear a
catalogue of Gordon's virtues. But she smiled, bravely. "I'll admit
that he is perfect," she said; "we won't quarrel over it, Con, dear."

But to herself she was saying, "Oh, I should hate to marry a perfect
man."

All the morning she sat there, her needle busy, and gradually she was
soothed by the peace of the pleasant room. The world seemed brighter,
her problems receded.

Just before luncheon was announced came Aunt Frances and Grace.

They brought gifts, wonderful little things, made by the nuns of
France--sheer, exquisite, tied with pale ribbons.

"We are going from here to Leila's," Aunt Frances informed them; "we
ordered some lovely trousseau clothes and they came with these."

Trousseau clothes? Leila's? Mary's needle pricked the air for a
moment.

"They haven't set the day, you know, Aunt Frances; it will be a long
engagement."

"I don't believe in long engagements," Aunt Frances' tone was final;
"they are not wise. Barry ought to settle down."

Nobody answered. There was nothing to say, but Mary was oppressed by
the grim humor of it all. Here was Aunt Frances bearing garments for
the bride, while Gordon was planning to steal the bridegroom.

She stood up. "You better stay to lunch," she said; "it is Susan
Jenks' hot roll day, and you know her rolls."

Aunt Frances peeled off her long gloves. "I hoped you'd ask us, we are
so tired of hotel fare."

Grace laughed. "Mother is of old New York," she said, "and better for
her are hot rolls and chops from her own kitchen range, than caviar and
truffles from the hands of a hotel chef--in spite of all of our globe
trotting, she hasn't caught the habit of meals with the mob."

Grace went down with Mary, and the two girls found Susan Jenks with the
rolls all puffy and perfect in their pans.

"There's plenty of them," she said to Mary, "an' if the croquettes give
out, you can fill up on rolls."

"Susan," Grace said, "when Mary gets married will you come and keep
house for me?"

Susan smiled. "Miss Mary ain't goin' to git married."

"Why not?"

"She ain't that kind. She's the kind that looks at a man and studies
about him, and then she waves him away and holds up her head, and says,
'I'm sorry, but you won't do.'"

The two girls laughed. "How did you ge