In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens, and in Which Life is Looked Upon as a Great Adventure

It had been decided that, for a time at least, Gordon and Constance
should stay with Mary. In the spring they would again go back to
London. Grace Clendenning and Aunt Frances were already installed for
the winter at their hotel.

The young couple would occupy the Sanctum and the adjoining room, and
Mary was to take on an extra maid to help Susan Jenks.

In all her planning, Mary had a sense of the pervasiveness of Gordon
Richardson. With masculine confidence in his ability, he took upon
himself not only his wife's problems, but Mary's. Mary was forced to
admit, even while she rebelled, that his judgments were usually wise.
Yet, she asked herself, what right had an outsider to dictate in
matters which pertained to herself and Barry? And what right had he to
offer her board for Constance? Constance, who was her very own?

But when she had indignantly voiced her objection to Gordon, he had
laughed. "You are like all women, Mary," he had said, "and of course I
appreciate your point of view and your hospitality. But if you think
that I am going to let my wife stay here and add to your troubles and
expense without giving adequate compensation, you are vastly mistaken.
If you won't let us pay, we won't stay, and that's all there is to it."

Here was masculine firmness against which Mary might rage impotently.
After all, Constance was Gordon's wife, and he could carry her off.