versatility."

Colin hesitated. "They are crude beside this."

But Porter insisted. "They're charming. Trot them out, Quale."

So out they came---the picture of the lank lady with the long face, and
the picture of the little saint in red.

It was to the girl in red that they gave the most attention.

"How lovely she is," Mary said, "and how sweet."

But Delilah, observing closely, did not agree with her. "I'm not sure.
Some women look like that who are little fiends. You haven't shown me
this before, Colin. Who was she?"

Colin evaded. "Some one I knew a long time ago."

Porter was shaken inwardly by the thought that the little blond artist
was proving himself a gentleman. He would not proclaim to the world
what he had told Porter in confidence.

Porter's instincts, however, were purely primitive. He wanted to shout
to the housetops, "That's the picture of Roger Poole's wife. Look at
her and see how sweet she is. And then decide if she made her own
unhappiness."

But he did not shout. He kept silent and watched Mary. She was still
studying the picture attentively. "I don't see how you can say that
she could be anything but sweet, Delilah. I think it is the face of a
truthful child."

Porter's heart leaped. The time would come when he would tell her that
the picture of the little trustful child was the picture of Roger
Poole's wife. And then----

Colin had turned off the lights again. They sat now among the shadows
and drank cool things and ate the marvelous little cakes which were a
specialty of the pastry cook around the corner.

"In a week we'll all be away from here," Delilah said. "I wonder why
we are so foolish. If it weren't for the fact that we've got the
habit, we'd be just as comfortable at home."

"I shall be at home," Mary said. "I'm not entitled yet to a vacation."

"Don't you hate it?" Delilah demanded frankly.

Mary hesitated. "No, I don't. I can't say that I really like it--but
it gave me quite a wonderful feeling to open my first pay envelope."

"Women have gone mad," Porter said. "They are deliberately turning
away from womanly things to make machines of themselves."

Delilah, taking up the cudgels for Mary, demanded, "Is Mary turning her
back on womanly things any more than I? I am making a business of
capturing society--Mary is simply holding down her job until Romance
butts into her life."

Colin stopped her. "I wish you'd put your twentieth century m