Barry looked down at Leila. Then he leaned toward her father. "I'm going to take this child outside," he said; "she's as white as a sheet. She doesn't like it. We will meet you all later." Leila's color came back in the sunshine and air and she insisted that Barry should return to the hall. "I don't want you to miss it," she said, "just because I am so silly. I can stay in Porter's car and wait." "I don't want to see it--it's an old story to me." So they walked on toward Arlington, entering at last the gate which leads into that wonderful city of the nation's Northern dead, which was once the home of Southern hospitality. In a sheltered corner they sat down and Barry smiled at Little-Lovely Leila. "Are you all right now, kiddie?" "Yes," but she did not smile. He bent down and peered through her veil. "Take it off and let me look at your eyes." With trembling hands, she took out a pin or two and let it fall. "You've been crying." "Oh, Barry," the words were a cry--the cry of a little wounded bird. He stopped smiling. "Blessed one, what is it?" "I can't tell you." "You must." "No." A low-growing magnolia hid them from the rest of the world; he put masterful hands on her shoulders and turned her face toward him--her little unhappy face. "Now tell me." She shook herself free. "Don't, Barry." He flushed suddenly and sensitively. "I know I'm not much of a fellow." She answered with a dignity which seemed to surmount her usual childishness, "Barry, if a man wants a woman to believe in him, he's got to make himself worthy of it." "Well," defiantly, "what have I done?" [Illustration: "What have I done?"] "Don't you know?" "No-o." "Then I'll tell you. Yes, I _will_ tell you," with sudden courage. "I was at Delilah's this morning, and I saw your picture, and what you had written on it----" He stared at her, with a sense of surging relief. If it was only that he had to explain about--Lilah. A smile danced in his eyes. "Well?" "I know you like to--play the game--but I didn't think you'd go as far as that----" "How far?" "Oh, you know." "I don't." "_Barry!_" "I don't. I wish you'd tell me what you mean, Leila." "I will." Her eyes were not reproachful now, they were blazing. She had risen, and with her hands tucked into her muff, and her veil blowing about her flushed cheeks, she made her accusation. "You wrote on that picture, 'To the One Girl--Forever.' Is that the way you think of Delilah, Barry?" "No. It is the way I think of you. And how did that picture happen to be in Delilah's possession? I sent it to you." "To me?" "Yes, I took it over to you yesterday, and left it with one of the maids--a new one. I intended, to go in and give it to you, but when she said you had callers, I handed her the package----" "And I thought--oh, Barry, what else could I think?"