Porter took Leila home first, then drove Mary and Aunt Isabelle back through the park to the old house on the hill.

“I’m coming in,” he said, as he helped Mary out of the car.

“But it is so late, Porter.”

“I’ve been here lots of times as late as this.  I won’t be sent home, Mary, not to-night.”

Aunt Isabelle, tired and sleepy, went at once up-stairs.  Mary sat on the porch with Porter.  Below them lay the city in the white moonlight.  For a while they were silent, then Porter said, suddenly: 

“Mary, there’s something I want to tell you.  You may think that I’m interfering in your affairs, but I can’t help it.  I can’t see you doing things which will make you unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy.  What do you mean, Porter?”

“You will be—­if you go on as you are going.  Mary—­I took you to Colin’s to-night on purpose, so that you could see the picture of the little saint in red, the Fra Angelico one.”

“Yes.”

“You know what you said about her—­that she had such a trustful, childish face?”

“Yes.”

“That was the picture of Roger Poole’s wife, Mary.”

She sat as still in her white dress as a marble statue.

At last she asked, “How do you know?”

“Quale told me.  I fancy he hadn’t heard that Poole had lived here, and that we knew him.  So he let the name drop carelessly.”

“Well?”

He turned on her flaming.  “I know what you mean by that tone, Mary.  But you’re unjust.  You think I’ve been meddling.  But I haven’t.  It is only this.  If Poole could break the heart of one woman, he can break the heart of another—­and he sha’n’t break yours.”

“Who told you that he broke her heart?”

“You’ve seen the picture.  Could a woman with a face like that do anything bad enough to wreck a man’s life?  I can’t believe it, Mary.  There are always two sides of a question.”

She did not answer at once.  Then she said, “How did you know about—­Roger?”

“Delilah told me—­he couldn’t expect to keep it secret.”

“He did not expect it; and he had much to bear.”

“Then he has told you, and has pleaded with eloquence?  But that child’s face in the picture pleads with me.”

It did plead.  Remembering it, Mary was assailed by her first doubts. 
It was such a child’s face, with saint’s eyes.

Porter’s voice was proceeding.  “A man can always make out a case for himself.  And you have only his word for what he did.  Oh, I suppose you’ll think I’m all sorts of a cad to talk this way.  But I can’t see you drifting, drifting toward a danger which may wreck your life.”

“Why should it wreck my life?”

“Because Poole, whatever the merits of the case—­doesn’t seem to me strong enough to shape his destiny and yours.  Was it strong for him to let go as he did, just because that woman failed him?  Was it strong for him to hide himself here—­like—­like a criminal?  A strong man would have faced the world.  He would have tried to rise out of his wreck.  His actions all through spell weakness.  I could bear your not marrying me, Mary.  But I can’t bear to see you marry a man who isn’t worthy of you.  To see you unhappy would be torture for me.”