Mary settled it.  “Let me have it,” she said; “I’ll put in a few tucks and a little embroidery—­I shall be glad to have my fingers busy.”

“You’re always so occupied with other things,” Constance complained, gently.  “I don’t see half enough of you.”

“You have Gordon,” Mary remarked.

“You say that as if it really made a difference.”

“It does,” Mary murmured.  Then, lest she trouble Constance’s gentle soul, she added bravely, “But Gordon’s a dear.  And you’re a lucky girl.”

“I know I am.”  Constance was complacent.  “And I knew you’d recognize it, when you’d seen more of Gordon.”

Mary felt a rising sense of rebellion.  She was not in a mood to hear a catalogue of Gordon’s virtues.  But she smiled, bravely.  “I’ll admit that he is perfect,” she said; “we won’t quarrel over it, Con, dear.”

But to herself she was saying, “Oh, I should hate to marry a perfect man.”

All the morning she sat there, her needle busy, and gradually she was soothed by the peace of the pleasant room.  The world seemed brighter, her problems receded.

Just before luncheon was announced came Aunt Frances and Grace.

They brought gifts, wonderful little things, made by the nuns of France—­sheer, exquisite, tied with pale ribbons.

“We are going from here to Leila’s,” Aunt Frances informed them; “we ordered some lovely trousseau clothes and they came with these.”

Trousseau clothes?  Leila’s?  Mary’s needle pricked the air for a moment.

“They haven’t set the day, you know, Aunt Frances; it will be a long engagement.”

“I don’t believe in long engagements,” Aunt Frances’ tone was final; “they are not wise.  Barry ought to settle down.”

Nobody answered.  There was nothing to say, but Mary was oppressed by the grim humor of it all.  Here was Aunt Frances bearing garments for the bride, while Gordon was planning to steal the bridegroom.

She stood up.  “You better stay to lunch,” she said; “it is Susan Jenks’ hot roll day, and you know her rolls.”

Aunt Frances peeled off her long gloves.  “I hoped you’d ask us, we are so tired of hotel fare.”

Grace laughed.  “Mother is of old New York,” she said, “and better for her are hot rolls and chops from her own kitchen range, than caviar and truffles from the hands of a hotel chef—­in spite of all of our globe trotting, she hasn’t caught the habit of meals with the mob.”

Grace went down with Mary, and the two girls found Susan Jenks with the rolls all puffy and perfect in their pans.

“There’s plenty of them,” she said to Mary, “an’ if the croquettes give out, you can fill up on rolls.”

“Susan,” Grace said, “when Mary gets married will you come and keep house for me?”

Susan smiled.  “Miss Mary ain’t goin’ to git married.”

“Why not?”

“She ain’t that kind.  She’s the kind that looks at a man and studies about him, and then she waves him away and holds up her head, and says, ‘I’m sorry, but you won’t do.’”