“You?” That was all.  Just a little breathed note of incredulity.

“Yes.  I wanted to tell you before he should have a chance to tell, and to think that I had kept from you something which you should have been told.  But I am not sure, even now, that it should be told.”

“But on Christmas Eve, you said that you did not believe——­”

“I do not.”

“And was that the reason you gave it up?”

“No.  It is a long story.  And it is not a pleasant one.  Yet it seems that I must tell it.”

The wind had risen and blew a mist from the fountain.  The dead leaves rustled.

Mary shivered.

“Oh, you are cold,” Roger said, “and I am keeping you.”

“No,” she said, mechanically, “I am not cold.  I have my cloak.  Please go on.”

But he was not to tell his story then, for a shaft of strong light illumined the roadway, and a big limousine stopped at the foot of the terrace steps.  They heard Delilah Jeliffe’s high laugh; then Porter’s voice in the garden.  “Mary, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Grace Clendenning and her mother are going, and Delilah and Mr. Jeliffe have motored out to show you their new car.”

There was deep disapproval in his voice.  Mary rose reluctantly as he joined them.  “Oh, Porter, must I listen to Delilah’s chatter for the rest of the evening?”

“You made me listen to Grace’s.  This is your punishment.”

“I don’t want to be punished.  And I am very tired, Porter.”

This was a new word in Mary Ballard’s vocabulary, and Porter responded at once to its appeal.

“We will get rid of Delilah presently, and then Gordon and Constance will go with us for a spin around the Speedway.  That will set you up, little lady.”

Roger stood silent by the fountain.  Through the veil of mist the little bronze boy seemed to smile maliciously.  During all the years in which he had ridden the dolphin, he had seen men and women come and go beneath the hundred-leaved bush.  And he had smiled on all of them, and by their mood they had interpreted his smiles.

Roger’s mood at this moment was one of impotent rebellion at Porter’s air of proprietorship, and it was with this air intensified that, as Mary shivered again Porter drew her wrap about her shoulders, fastening the loop over the big button with expert fingers and said, carelessly, “Are you coming in with us, Poole?”

“No.  Not now.”

Above the head of the little bronze boy, level glance met level glance, as in the moonlight the men surveyed each other.

Then Mary spoke.

“Mr. Poole, I am so sorry not to hear the rest of the—­story.”

“You shall hear it another time.”

She hesitated, looking up at him.  It was as if she wanted to speak but could not, with Porter there to listen.

So she smiled, with eyes and lips.  Just a flash, but it warmed his heart.