Barry trimmed the four sides of a clipping with four clips of his shears.

“Exactly,” said he briefly.  He banged a drawer shut, closed a book and laid it aside, and stuck the brush into his glue-pot.  “Getting enough of dinner parties?” he asked then, cheerfully.

“Too much,” said Sidney, wondering why she felt like a reprimanded child.  “And that reminds me:  I am giving two dinners for the Von Praags, you know.  I can’t manage everybody at once; I hate more than ten people at a dinner.  And you are asked to the first.”

“I don’t go much to dinners,” Barry said.

“I know you don’t; but I want you to come to this one,” said Sidney.  “You’ll love old Mr. von Praag.  And Richard, the son, is a dear!  I really want you.”

“He’s an artist, too, isn’t he?” said Barry without enthusiasm.

“Who, Richard?” she asked, something in his manner putting her a little at a loss.  “Yes; and he’s very clever, and so nice!  He’s like a brother to me.”

Barry did not answer, but after a moment he said, scowling a little, and not looking up: 

“A fellow like that has pretty smooth sailing.  Rich, the son of a big man, traveling all he wants to, studio in New York, clubs—­”

“Oh, Richard has his troubles,” Sidney said.  “His wife is very delicate, and they lost their little girl...  Are you angry with me about anything, Barry?” she broke off, puzzled and distressed, for this unresponsive almost sullen manner was unlike anything she had ever seen in him.

But a moment later he turned toward her with his familiar sunny smile.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” he said sheepishly.

“Say—?” she echoed bewilderedly.  Then, with a sudden rush of enlightenment, “Why, Barry, you’re not jealous?”

A second later she would have given much to have the words unsaid.  They faced each other in silence, the color mounting steadily in Sidney’s face.

“I didn’t mean of me,” she stammered uncomfortably; “I meant of everything.  I thought—­but it was a silly thing to say.  It sounded—­ I didn’t think—­”

“I don’t know why you shouldn’t have thought it, since I was fool enough to show it,” said Barry after a moment, coming over to her desk and facing her squarely.  Sidney stood up, opposite him, her heart beating wildly.  “And I don’t know why I shouldn’t be jealous,” he went on steadily, “at the idea that some old friend might come in here and take you away from Santa Paloma.  You asked me if it was old Rogers’ going that made a difference to me—­”

“I know,” interrupted Sidney, scarlet-cheeked.  “Please”—­