"No," said Mary, "Why should I?"

Delilah shrugged. "If a man," she said, "had looked at me as he
looked at you on Thanksgiving night, I should be, to say the
least--interested----"

Mary's head was held high. "I like Roger Poole," she said, "and he's a
gentleman. But I'm not thinking about the look in his eyes."

Yet she did think of it, after all, for such seed does the Delilah-type
of woman sow. She thought of him, but only with a little wonder--for
Mary was as yet unawakened--Porter's passionate pleading, the magic of
Roger Poole's voice--these had not touched the heart which still waited.

"Since Mahomet wouldn't come to the mountain," Mary remarked to her
lodger as Susan deposited her burden, "the mountain had to come to
Mahomet. And here's a bit of mistletoe for your door, and of holly for
your window."

He took the wreaths from her. "You are like the spirit of Christmas in
your green gown."

"This?" She was wearing the green velvet--with a low collar of lace.
"Oh, I've had this for ages, but I like it----" She broke off to say,
wistfully, "It seems as if you ought to come down--as if up here you'd
be lonely."

Susan Jenks, hanging the mistletoe over the door, was out of range of
their voices.