“Of course. And she knows all about your friendship with this man.”
“I don't think she does. I haven't told her. Why should I?” returned Helen, raising her clear eyes to his.
“Really, I don't know,” stammered Sir James. “But here she is. Of course if you prefer it, I won't say anything of this to her.”
Helen gave him her first glance of genuine emotion; it happened, however, to be scorn.
“How odd!” she said, as the duchess leisurely approached them, her glass still in her eye. “Sir James, quite unconsciously, has just been showing me a sketch of my dear old mansarde in Paris. Look! That little window was my room. And, only think of it, Sir James bought it of an old friend of mine, who painted it from the opposite attic, where he lived. And quite unconsciously, too.”
“How very singular!” said the duchess; “indeed, quite romantic!”
“Very!” said Sir James.
“Very!” said Helen.
The tone of their voices was so different that the duchess looked from one to the other.
“But that isn't all,” said Helen with a smile, “Sir James actually fancied”—