"Train to the junction; then wagons."
"How long shall you stay?"
"A week or two."
"I'll go," said Heathcote. He threw away his cigar, and started toward his room. Helen was singing in the parlor as he passed; he paused outside for a moment to listen. Every one was present save Anne and Gregory Dexter; yet the long room wore to him already the desolate and empty aspect of summer resorts in September. He could see the singer plainly; he leaned against the wall and looked at her. He liked her; she fitted into all the grooves of his habits and tastes. And he thought she would marry him if he pushed the matter. While he was thus meditating, a soft little hand touched his arm in the darkness. "I saw you," said Rachel, in a whisper, "and came round to join you. You are looking at Helen; what a flute-like voice she has! Let us go out and listen to her on the piazza."
Mr. Heathcote would be delighted to go. He hated that parlor, with all those people sitting round in a row. How could Rachel stand it?
Rachel, with a pathetic sigh, answered, How could she do as she wished? She had no talent for deception.
Heathcote regretted this; he wished with all his heart that she had.
His heart was not all his to wish with, Rachel suggested, in a cooing murmur.
He answered that it was. And then they went out on the piazza.
Helen missed Rachel, and suspected, but sang on as sweetly as ever. At last, however, even Rachel could not keep the recreant admirer longer. He went off to his room, filled a travelling bag, lit a cigar, and then sat down to write a note: