Colin laughed. "You're not afraid of any one."
"Yes, I am. You analyze my mental processes in such a weird fashion. You are always reading me like a book."
"A most interesting book," Colin's lashes quivered, "with lovely illustrations."
They laughed, and swept away into a brisk walk, followed by curious eyes.
If to others Mary's radiance seemed a miracle of returning health, to Porter Bigelow it was no miracle. Nothing could have more completely rung the knell of his hopes than this radiance.
Her attitude toward him was irreproachable. She was kinder, indeed, than she had been in the days when he had tried to force his claims upon her. She seemed to be trying by her friendliness to make up for something which she had withdrawn from him, and he knew that nothing could ever make up.
So it came about that he spent less and less of his time with her, and more and more with Leila—Leila who needed comforting, and who welcomed him with such sweet and clinging dependence—Leila who hung upon his advice, Leila who, divining his hurt, strove by her sweet sympathy to help him.
Thus they came in due time to London. And when Leila and her father left for the German baths, Porter went with them.
It was when he said "Good-bye" to Mary that his voice broke.
"Dear Contrary Mary," he said, "the old name still fits you. You never could, and you never would, and now you never will."