"Delilah," said Barry, comfortably, "is good fun. I'm glad she is coming."
"She may be good fun," said Mary, slowly, "but she isn't—our kind."
"Leila said that to me," Barry told her. "I don't quite see what you girls mean."
"Well, you wouldn't," Mary agreed; "men don't see. But I should think when you look at Leila you'd know the difference. Leila is like a little wild rose, and Delilah Jeliffe is a—tulip."
"I like tulips," murmured Barry, audaciously.
Mary laughed. What was the use? Barry was Barry. And Delilah Jeliffe would flit in and out of his life as other girls had flitted; but always there would be for him—Leila.
"If you were a woman," she said, "you'd know by her clothes, and the pink of her cheeks, and by the way she does her hair—she's just a little too much of—everything—Barry."
"There's just enough of Delilah Jeliffe," said Barry, "to keep a man guessing."
"Guessing what?" Mary demanded with a spark in her eyes.
"Oh, just guessing," easily.