Courtney buried her face in the urn of violets. And next to her feeling of enormous relief at the clearing of Basil from the worst charge against him was gratitude that she would not have to try to play the tyrant—try to send Helen away.
"It may be some bad woman's gotten hold of him," continued the girl reflectively. "He may be chained by a love he's ashamed of."
"That sounds like a weekly story paper."
"I know there's some weight on his conscience," maintained Helen.
Courtney looked strangely at her and laughed. "When people look and talk remorse, they're only boasting. He's trying to make himself interesting, my dear. He wants to thrill you with the story of his life—some commonplace adventure he exaggerates into an epic drama." She laughed again, most unpleasantly. "Heaven deliver me from these 'My God! How she loves me' men!"
"He's not like that—not at all," protested Helen. "But—oh, I wish I knew whether he cared for me. I don't know what to do! I've given him every opportunity—" She stopped short with such an expression of horror at her slip that Courtney laughed outright. "I don't mean I've done anything forward or unladylike—" stammered Helen.
"He's a man of the world." She pinched Helen's cheek. "He reads that innocent little mind of yours like an electric sign."
Helen was hysterical with dismay. "You think he's laughing at me?"
"And getting ready to—to amuse himself."
"Courtney!"