"I am. I'm going to let you work and do as you please for a little while, if you must. But in the end I'm going to marry you, Mary."
At dinner Mary announced the contents of her letter in the long envelope. "I have received my appointment as stenographer in the Treasury, and I'm to report for duty on the twentieth."
It was Aunt Frances who recovered first from the shock. "Well, if you were my child——"
Grace, with little points of light in her eyes, spoke smoothly, "If Mary were your child, she would be as dutiful as I am, mother. But you see she isn't your child."
Aunt Frances snorted—"Dutiful."
Gordon was glowering. "It is rank foolishness."
Mary flared. "That's your point of view, Gordon. You judge me by Constance. But Constance has always been feminine and sweet—and I've never been particularly feminine, nor particularly sweet."
Barry followed up her defense. "I guess Mary knows how to take care of herself, Gordon."
"No woman knows how to take care of herself," Gordon was obstinate, "when it comes to the fight with economic conditions. I should hate to think of Constance trying to earn a living."
"Gordon, dear," Constance's voice appealed, "I couldn't—but Mary can—only I hate to see her do it."