"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.
Yet as she went away with Porter, and passed once more through the broad band of the street lamp's light which made of her scarlet cloak a flaming flower, he looked after her wistfully, and wondered if when she had heard what he had to tell she would ever smile at him like that again.
Delilah, fresh from a triumphal summer, was in the midst of a laughing group on the porch.
As Mary came up, she was saying: "And we have taken a dear old home in Georgetown. No more glare or glitter. Everything is to be subdued to the dullness of a Japanese print—pale gray and dull blue and a splash of black. This gown gives the keynote."