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 mind on your mid-Victorian clothes,” he said, “and live up to them—­in your language.”

Delilah laughed.  “Well, I told the truth if I didn’t do it elegantly.  We are both working for things which we want.  Mary wants Romance and I want social recognition.”

Leila sighed.  “It isn’t always what we want that we get, is it?” she asked, and Porter answered with decision, “It is not.  Life throws us usually brickbats instead of bouquets.”

Colin did not agree.  “Life gives us sometimes more than we deserve.  It has given me that picture of Miss Jeliffe.  And I consider that a pretty big slice of good fortune.”

“You’re a nice boy, Colin,” Delilah told him, “and I like you—­and I like your philosophy.  I fancy life is giving me as much as I deserve.”

The others were silent.  Life was not giving Leila or Porter or Mary at that moment the things that they wanted.  Porter’s demands on destiny were definite.  He wanted Mary.  Leila wanted Barry.  Mary did not know what she wanted; she only knew that she was unsatisfied.