It was during these little adventures that Mary became conscious of certain reserves in the younger girl.  She was closely confidential, yet the open frankness of the old days was gone.

Once Mary spoke of it.  “You’ve grown up, all in a minute, Leila,” she said.  “You’re such a quiet little mouse.”

Leila sighed.  “There’s so much to think about.”

Watching her, Mary decided.  “It is harder for her than for Barry.  He has his work.  But she just waits and longs for him.”

In waiting and longing, Little-Lovely Leila grew more mouse-like than ever.  And at last Mary spoke to the General.  “She needs a change.”

He nodded.  “I know it.  I am thinking of taking her over in the spring.”

“How lovely.  Have you told her?”

“No—­I thought it would be a grand surprise.”

“Tell her now, dear General.  She needs to look forward.”

So the General, who had been kept in the house nearly all winter by his rheumatism, spoke of certain baths in Germany.

“I thought I’d go over and try them,” he informed his small daughter, on the day after his talk with Mary, “and you could stop and call on Barry.”

“Barry!” She made a little rush toward him.  “Dad, Dad, do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

She tucked her head into his shoulder and cried for happiness.  “Dad, I’ve missed him so.”

With this hope held out to her, Little-Lovely Leila grew radiant.  Once more her feet danced along the halls, and the music of her voice trilled bird-like in the big rooms.

Delilah, discussing it with her artist, said:  “Leila makes me believe in Romance with a big R. But I couldn’t love like that.”

Colin smiled.  “You’d love like a lioness.  I’ve subdued you outwardly, but within you are still primitive.”

“I wonder——­” Delilah mused.

“The man for you,” Colin turned to her suddenly, “is Porter Bigelow.  Of course I’m taking it from the artist’s point of view.  You’re made for each other—­a pair of young gods—­his red head just topping your black one—­It was that way at the garden party; any one could see it.”

Delilah laughed.  “His eyes aren’t for me.  With him it is Mary Ballard.  If I were in love with him, I should hate Mary.  But I don’t; I love her.  And she’s in love with Roger Poole.”

Colin looked up from the samples from which he and Delilah were choosing her spring wardrobe.

“Poole?  I knew his wife,” he said abruptly; “it was her picture that I showed you the other night—­the little saint in the Fra Angelico pose—­it didn’t come to me until afterward that he might be the same Poole of whom I had heard you speak.”

Delilah swept across the room, and turned the canvas outward.  “Roger Poole’s wife,” she said, “of all things!” Then she stood staring silently.

“You didn’t tell us who she was.”