[Illustration:  “You don’t know what you are doing.”]

“Neither have you, Porter.”

“Well, if I haven’t, is it my fault?” he demanded, “I was born into the world with this millstone of money around my neck, and a red head.  Dad sent me to school and to college, and he set me up in business.  There wasn’t anything left for me to do but to keep straight, and I’ve done that for you.”

“I know,” she was very sweet as she leaned toward him, “but, Porter, sometimes, lately, I’ve wondered if that’s all that is expected of us.”

“All?  What do you mean?”

“Aren’t we expected to do something for others?”

“What others?”

She wanted to tell him about Roger Poole and the boy in the pines.  Her eyes glowed.  But her lips were silent.

“What others, Mary?”

“The people who aren’t as fortunate as we are.”

“What people?”

Mary was somewhat vague.  “The people who need us—­to help.”

“Marry me, and you can be Lady Bountiful—­dispensing charity.”

“It isn’t exactly charity.”  She had again the vision of Roger Poole and the boy.  “People don’t just want our money—­they want us to—­understand.”

He was not following her.  “To think that you should want to go out in the world—­to work.  Tell me why you are doing it.”

“Because I need an outlet for my energies—­the girl of limited income in these days is as ineffective as a jellyfish, if she hasn’t some occupation.”

“You could never be a jellyfish.  Mary, listen, listen.  I need you, dear.  I’ve kept still for a year—­Mary!”

“Porter, I can’t.”

And now he asked a question which had smouldered long in his breast.

“Is there any one else?”

Was there?  Her thoughts leaped at once to Roger.  What did he mean to her?  What could he ever mean?  He had said himself that he could expect nothing.  Perhaps he had meant that she must expect nothing.

“Mary, is it—­Roger Poole?”

Her eyes came up to meet his; they were like stars.  “Porter, I don’t—­know.”

He took the blow in silence.  The shadows were on them now.  In all the beauty of the May twilight, the little bronze boy grinned at love and at life.

“Has he asked you, Mary?”

“No.  I’m not sure that he wants to marry me—­I’m not sure that I want to marry him—­I only know that he is different.”  It was like Mary to put it thus, frankly.

“No man could know you without wanting to marry you.  But what has he to offer you—­oh, it is preposterous.”

She faced him, flaming.  “It isn’t preposterous, Porter.  What has any man to offer any woman except his love?  Oh, I know you men—­you think because you have money—­but if—­if—­both of you loved me—­you’d stand before me on your merits as men—­there would be nothing else in it for me but that.”

“I know.  And I’m willing to stand on my merits.”  The temper which belonged to Porter’s red head was asserting itself.  “I’m willing to stand on my merits.  I offer you a past which is clean—­a future of devotion.  It’s worth something, Mary—­in the years to come when you know more of men, you’ll understand that it is worth something.”