"And now—which will you wear?" demanded sprightly Cousin Patty, an undercurrent of anxiety in her tone.
Mary wore the violets, and Porter gloomed all through the play.
"So my orchids weren't good enough," he said, as she sat beside him on their way to the hotel where they were to have supper.
"They were lovely, Porter."
"But you liked the violets better? Who sent them, Mary?"
"Don't ask in that tone."
"You don't want to tell me."
"It isn't that—it's your manner." She broke off to say pleadingly, "Don't let us quarrel over it. Let me forget for to-night that there's any discord in the world—any work—any worry. Let me be Contrary Mary—happy, care-free, until it all begins over again in the morning."
Very softly she said it, and there were tears in her voice. He glanced down at her in surprise. "Is that the way life looks to you—you poor little thing?"
"Yes, and when you are cross, you make it harder."