The others were silent. Life was not giving Leila or Porter or Mary at that moment the things that they wanted. Porter's demands on destiny were definite. He wanted Mary. Leila wanted Barry. Mary did not know what she wanted; she only knew that she was unsatisfied.
Porter took Leila home first, then drove Mary and Aunt Isabelle back through the park to the old house on the hill.
"I'm coming in," he said, as he helped Mary out of the car.
"But it is so late, Porter."
"I've been here lots of times as late as this. I won't be sent home, Mary, not to-night."
Aunt Isabelle, tired and sleepy, went at once up-stairs. Mary sat on the porch with Porter. Below them lay the city in the white moonlight. For a while they were silent, then Porter said, suddenly:
"Mary, there's something I want to tell you. You may think that I'm interfering in your affairs, but I can't help it. I can't see you doing things which will make you unhappy."
"I'm not unhappy. What do you mean, Porter?"
"You will be—if you go on as you are going. Mary—I took you to Colin's to-night on purpose, so that you could see the picture of the little saint in red, the Fra Angelico one."
"Yes."