"Anywhere away from Leila. He mustn't marry that child. Not yet—not until he has proved himself a man."
The blow hit her heavily. Yet her sense of justice told her that he was right.
"I can't talk about it," she said, unsteadily; "Barry is all I have left."
He rose. "Poor little girl. We must see how we can work it out. But we've got to work it out. It mustn't drift."
Left alone, Mary sat down at her desk and faced the future. With Roger gone, and Barry going——
And the Tower Rooms empty!
She shivered. Before her stretched the darkness and storms of a long winter. Even Constance's coming would not make up for it. And yet a year ago Constance had seemed everything.
She crossed the hall to the dining-room and looked out of the window. The garden was dead. The fountain had ceased to play. But the little bronze boy still flung his gay defiance to wind and weather.
Pittiwitz, following her, murmured a mewing complaint. Mary picked her up; since Roger's going the gray cat had kept away from the emptiness of the upper rooms.
With the little purring creature hugged close, Mary reviewed her worries—the world was at sixes and sevens. Even Porter was proving difficult. Since the Sunday when Roger had saved her from the fire, Porter had adopted an air of possession. He claimed her at all times and seasons; she had a sense of being caught in a web woven of kindness and thoughtfulness and tender care, but none the less a web which held her fast and against her will.