Delilah looked from one to the other.
"You two would make a beautiful pair of saints on a stained glass window," she said reflectively, "with a spike of lilies and halos back of your heads."
"Most women are ready for halos," Porter said, "and wings, but I can't see myself balancing a spike of lilies."
"Nor I," Grace rippled; "you'd better make it hollyhocks, Delilah—do you know the old rhyme
"'A beau never goes
Where the hollyhock blows'?"
"You've never lacked men in your life," Delilah told her, shrewdly, "but with that hair you won't be one of the comfortable married kind—it will be either a grande passion or a career for you. If you don't find your Romeo, you'll be Mother Superior in a convent, the head of a deaconess home, or a nurse on a battle-field."
Grace's eyes sparkled. "Oh, wise Delilah, you haven't drifted so very far away from my dreams. Where did you get your wisdom?"
"I'm learning things from Colin Quale. We study types together. It's great fun for me, but he's perfectly serious."
Colin Quale was Delilah's artist. "Why didn't you bring him?" Constance asked.
"Because he doesn't belong in this family group; and anyhow I had something for him to do. He's making a sketch of the gown I am to wear at the White House garden party. It will keep him busy for the afternoon."