"Whatever I am as a man, you've made me," Porter repeated, "and now, if
you'll only let me take care of you----"

Hitherto, Mary had treated his love-making lightly, but to-night she
turned upon him her troubled eyes. "Porter, you know I can't. But
there are times when I wish--I could----"

"Then why not?"

She stopped him with a gesture. "It wouldn't be right. I'm simply
feeling lonely and lost because Constance is so far away. But that
isn't any reason for marrying you. You deserve a woman who cares, who
really cares, heart and soul. And I can't, dear boy."

"I was a fool to think you might," savagely, "a man with a red head is
always a joke."

"As if that had anything to do with it."

"But it has, Mary. You know as well as I do that when I was a
youngster I was always Reddy Bigelow to our crowd--Reddy Bigelow with a
carrot-head and freckles. If I had been poor and common, life wouldn't
have been worth living. But mother's family and Dad's money fixed that
for me. And I had an allowance big enough to supply the neighborhood
with sweets. You were a little thing, but you were sorry for me, and I
didn't have to buy you. But I'd buy you now--with a house in town and
a country house, and motor cars and lovely clothes--if I thought it
would do any good, Mary."