He had shown of late his impatience at the restraint which she had put upon him.  He had encroached more and more upon her time—­demanded more and more.  He had been kept from saying the things which she did not want him to say only by the fact that she would not listen.

She knew that he was expecting things which could never be—­and that by her silence she was giving sanction to his expectations.  Yet she found herself dreading to say the final word which would send him from her.

The friendship between a man and a woman has this poignant quality—­it has no assurance of permanence.  For, if either marries, the other must suffer loss; if either loves, the other must put away that which may have become a prized association.  As her friend, Mary valued Porter highly.  She had known him all her life.  Yet she was aware that she was taking all and returning nothing; and surely Porter had the right to ask of life something more than that.

She sighed, and going to her desk, took out of it the letter which she had received in the morning mail.

She knew that the moment that she announced the contents of that letter would be a dramatic one.  Even if she did it quietly, it would have the effect of a bomb thrown into the midst of a peaceful circle.  She had a fancy that it would be best to tell Porter first.  He was to come back to dinner, so she dressed and went down early.

He found her in the garden.  There were double rows of hyacinths in the paths now, with tulips coming up between, and beyond the fountain was an amethyst sky where the young moon showed.

She rose to greet him, her hands full of fragrant blossoms.

He held her hand tightly.  “How happy you look, Mary.”

“I am happy.”

“Because I’m here?  If you could only say that once truthfully.”

“It is always good to have you,”

“But you won’t tell a lie, and say you’re happier, because of my coming?  Oh, Contrary Mary!”

She shook her head.  “If I said nice things to you, you’d misunderstand.”

“Perhaps.  But why this radiance?”

“Good news.”

“From whom?”

“A man.”

“What man?” with rising jealousy.

“One who has given me the thing I want.”

He was plainly puzzled.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“A letter came this morning—­a lovely letter in a long envelope.”

She took a paper out of a magazine which lay on the stone bench by her side.  “Read that,” she said.

He read and his face went perfectly white, so that it showed chalkily beneath his red hair.

“Mary,” he said, “what have you done this for?  You know I’m not going to let you.”

“You haven’t anything to do with it.”

“But I have.  It is ridiculous.  You don’t know what you are doing.  You’ve never been tied to an office desk—­you’ve never fought and struggled with the world.”