Then Roger told her what he had been reluctant to tell. "I saw him down-town. I think he was on his way to the Country Club. He had been dining with some friends." "Men friends?" "Yes. He called one of them Jerry." He saw the color rise in her face. "I hate Jerry Tuckerman, and Barry promised Constance he'd let those boys alone." Her voice had a sharp note in it, but he saw that she was struggling with a gripping fear. This, then, was the burden she was bearing? And what a brave little thing she was to face the world with her head up. "Would you like to have me call the Country Club--I might be able to get your brother on the wire." "Oh; if you would." But he was saved the trouble. For, even while they spoke of him, Barry came, and Mary went down to him. A little later, there were stumbling steps upon the stairs, and a voice was singing--a strange song, in which each verse ended with a shout. Roger, stepping out into the dark upper hall, looked down over the railing. Mary, a slender shrinking figure; was coming with her brother up the lower flight. Barry had his arm around her, but her face was turned from him, and her head drooped. Then, still looking down, Roger saw her guide those stumbling steps to the threshold of the boy's room. The door opened and shut, and she was alone, but from within there still came the shouted words of that strange song. Mary stood for a moment with her hands clenched at her sides, then turned and laid her face against the closed door, her eyes hidden by her upraised arm. CHAPTER VIII _In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place; and in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone._ Whatever Delilah Jeliffe might lack, it was not originality. The apartment which she chose for her winter in Washington was like any other apartment when she went into it, but the changes which she made--the things which she added and the things which she took away, stamped it at once with her own individuality. The peacock screen before the fireplace, the cushions of sapphire and emerald and old gold on the couch, the mantel swept of all ornament except a seven-branched candlestick; these created the first impression. Then one's eyes went to an antique table on which a crystal ball, upborne by three bronze monkeys, seemed to gather to itself mysteriously all the glow of firelight and candlelight and rich color. At the other end of the table was a low bowl, filled always with small saffron-hued roses. In this room, one morning, late in Lent, Leila Dick sat, looking as out of place as an English daisy in a tropical jungle. Leila did not like the drawn curtains and the dimness. Outside the sun was shining, gloriously, and the sky was a deep and lovely blue. She was glad when Lilah sent for her. "You are to come right to her room," the maid announced. "Heavens, child," said the Delilah-beauty, who was combing her hair, "I didn't promise to be up with the birds."