'Well,' said Gerald, and it was now with a little more inquiry and with less serenity, 'I think, perhaps, I've found her. I think, Helen, that your nice Althea cares about me, you know, and would have me.'
Helen sat still, and did not move her eyes from the sky and trees. There was a long white cloud in the sky, an island floating in a sea of blue. She noted its bays and peninsulas, the azure rivers that interlaced it, its soft depressions and radiant uplands. She never forgot it. She could have drawn the snowy island, from memory, for years. All her life long she had waited for this moment; all her life long she had lived with the sword of its acceptance in her heart. She had thought that she had accepted; but now the sword turned—horribly turned—round and round in her heart, and she did not know what she should do.
'Well,' Gerald repeated, standing still, and, as she knew, looking at the back of her head in a little perplexity.
Helen looked cautiously down at the cigarette she held; it still smoked languidly. She raised it to her lips and drew a whiff. Then, after that, she dared a further effort. 'Well?' she repeated.
Gerald laughed a trifle nervously. 'I asked you,' he reminded her.
She was able, testing her strength, as a tight-rope walker slides a careful foot along the rope, to go on. 'Oh, I see. And do you care about her?'
Gerald was silent for another moment, and she guessed that he had run his hand through his hair and rumpled it on end.
'She really is a little dear, isn't she?' he then said. 'You mayn't find her interesting—though I really do; and she may be like eau rougie; but, as you said, it's a pleasant draught to have beside one. She is gentle and wise and good, and she seems to take her place here very sweetly, doesn't she? She seems really to belong here, don't you think so?'
Helen could not answer that question. 'Do you want me to tell you whether you care for her?' she asked.
He laughed. 'I suppose I do.'