“Whatever I am as a man, you’ve made me,” he said to Mary two hours later, in the intermission between the second and third acts of the musical comedy, which, for a time, had claimed their attention.  Aunt Isabelle, in front of the box, was smiling gently, happy in the golden light and the nearness of the music.  Barry was visiting Leila and the General who were just below, in orchestra chairs.

“Whatever I am as a man, you’ve made me,” Porter repeated, “and now, if you’ll only let me take care of you——­”

Hitherto, Mary had treated his love-making lightly, but to-night she turned upon him her troubled eyes.  “Porter, you know I can’t.  But there are times when I wish—­I could——­”

“Then why not?”

She stopped him with a gesture.  “It wouldn’t be right.  I’m simply feeling lonely and lost because Constance is so far away.  But that isn’t any reason for marrying you.  You deserve a woman who cares, who really cares, heart and soul.  And I can’t, dear boy.”

“I was a fool to think you might,” savagely, “a man with a red head is always a joke.”

“As if that had anything to do with it.”

“But it has, Mary.  You know as well as I do that when I was a youngster I was always Reddy Bigelow to our crowd—­Reddy Bigelow with a carrot-head and freckles.  If I had been poor and common, life wouldn’t have been worth living.  But mother’s family and Dad’s money fixed that for me.  And I had an allowance big enough to supply the neighborhood with sweets.  You were a little thing, but you were sorry for me, and I didn’t have to buy you.  But I’d buy you now—­with a house in town and a country house, and motor cars and lovely clothes—­if I thought it would do any good, Mary.”

“You wouldn’t want me that way, Porter.”

“I want you—­any way.”

He stopped as the curtain went up, and darkness descended.  But presently out of the darkness came his whisper, “I want you—­any way.”

They had supper after the play, Leila and the General joining them at
Porter’s compelling invitation.

Pending the serving of the supper, Barry detained Leila for a moment in a palm-screened corner of the sumptuous corridor.

“That girl from New York, Leila—­Miss Jeliffe?  What is her first name?”

“Delilah.”

“It isn’t.”

Leila’s light laughter mocked him.  “Yes, it is, Barry.  She calls herself Lilah and pronounces it as I do mine.  But she signs her cheques De-lilah.”

Barry recovered.  “Where did you meet her?”

“At school.  Her father’s in Congress.  They are coming to us to-morrow.  Dad has asked me to invite them as house guests until they find an apartment.”

“Well, she’s dazzling.”

Leila flamed.  “I don’t see how you can like—­her kind——­”

“Little lady,” he admonished, “you’re jealous.  I danced four dances with her, and only one with your new pink slippers.”