Grace challenged the last statement.  “He’s a brilliant man,” she said.  “I sat next to him at dinner.  There’s a mystery somewhere.  He has an air of authority, the ease of a man of the world.”

“He is in love with Mary,” said Mrs. Clendenning, “and he oughtn’t to be in the house.”

“But Mary isn’t in love with him—­not yet.”

“How do you know?”

In the darkness Grace smiled.  How did she know?  Why, Mary in love would be lighted up by a lamp within!  It would burn in her cheeks, flash in her eyes.

“No, Mary’s not in love,” she said.

“She ought to marry Porter Bigelow.”

“She ought not to marry Porter.  Mary should marry a man who would utilize all that she has to give.  Porter would not utilize it.”

“Now what do you mean by that?” said Mrs. Clendenning, impatiently.  “Don’t talk nonsense, Grace.”

“Mary Ballard,” Grace analyzed slowly, “is one of the women who if she had been born in another generation would have gone singing to the lions for the sake of an ideal; she would have led an army, or have loaded guns behind barricades.  She has courage and force, and the need of some big thing in her life to bring out her best.  And Porter doesn’t need that kind of wife.  He doesn’t want it.  He wants to worship.  To kneel at her feet and look up to her.  He would require nothing of her.  He would smother her with tenderness.  And she doesn’t want to be smothered.  She wants to lift up her head and face the beating winds.”

Mrs. Clendenning, helpless before this burst of eloquence on the part of her usually restrained daughter, asked, tartly, “How in the world do you know what Porter wants or Mary needs?”

“Perhaps,” said Grace, slowly, “it is because I am a little like Mary.  But I am older, and I’ve learned to take what the world gives.  Not what I want.  But Mary will never be content with compromise, and she will always go through life with her head up.”

Mary’s head was up at that very moment, as with cheeks flaming and eyes bright, she played hostess to her guests, while in the back of her brain were beating questions about Roger Poole.

Freed from the somewhat hampering presence of Mrs. Clendenning, Delilah was letting herself go, and she drew even from grave Gordon Richardson the tribute of laughter.

“It was an artist that I met at Marblehead,” she said, “who showed me the way.  He told me that I was a blot against the sea and the sky, with my purples and greens and reds and yellows.  I will show you his sketches of me as I ought to be.  They opened my eyes; and I’ll show you my artist too.  He’s coming down to see whether I have caught the idea.”

And now she moved down the steps.  “Father will be furious if I keep him waiting any longer.  He’s crazy over the car, and when he drives, it is a regular Tam O’Shanter performance.  I won’t ask any of you to risk your necks with him yet, but if you and the General are willing to try it, Leila, we will take you home.”