She stuck out a small foot.  “They’re lovely, Barry,” she said, repentantly, “and I haven’t thanked you.”

“Why should you?  Just look pleasant, please.  I’ve had enough scolding for one day.”

“Who scolded?”

“Mary.”

Leila glanced into the dining-room, where, in her slim fairness, Mary was like a pale lily, among all the tulip women, and poppy women, and orchid women, and night-shade women of the social garden.

“If Mary scolded you, you deserved it,” she said, loyally.

“You too?  Leila, if you don’t stick to me, I might as well give up.”

His face was moody, brooding.  She forgot the Delilah-dancer of the afternoon, forgot everything except that this wonderful man-creature was in trouble.

“Barry,” she said, simply, like a child, “I’ll stick to you until I—­die.”

He looked down into the adoring eyes.  “I believe you would, Leila,” he said, with a boyish catch in his voice; “you’re the dearest thing on God’s great earth!”

The chilled fruit was already on the table when they went in, and it was followed by a chafing dish over which the General presided.  Red-faced and rapturous, he seasoned and stirred, and as the result of his wizardry there was placed before them presently such plates of Creole crab as could not be equaled north of New Orleans.

“To cook,” said the General, settling himself back in his chair and beaming at Mary who was beside him, “one must be a poet—­to me there is more in that dish than merely something to eat.  There’s color—­the red of tomatoes, the green of the peppers, the pale ivory of mushrooms, the snow white of the crab—­there’s atmosphere—­aroma.”

“The difference,” Mary told him, smiling, “between your cooking and Susan Jenks’ is the difference between an epic—­and a nursery rhyme.  They’re both good, but Susan’s is unpremeditated art.”

“I take off my hat to Susan Jenks,” said the General—­“when her poetry expresses itself in waffles and fried chicken.”

Mary was devoting herself to the General.  Porter Bigelow who was on the other side of her, was devoting himself to Aunt Isabelle.

Aunt Isabelle was serenely content in her new office of chaperone.

“I can hear so much better in a crowd.” she said, “and then there’s so much to see.”

“And this is the time for the celebrities,” said Porter, and wrote on the corner of the supper card the name of a famous Russian countess at the table next to them.  Beyond was the Speaker of the House; the British Ambassador with his fair company of ladies; the Spanish Ambassador at a table of darker beauties.

Mary, listening to Porter’s pleasant voice, was constrained to admit that he could be charming.  As for the freckles and “carrot-head,” they had been succeeded by a fine if somewhat florid complexion, and the curled thickness of his brilliant crown gave to his head an almost classic beauty.