In her alarm at this Courtney caught hold of Helen. "If you did such a thing, you'd be doing me the greatest possible injury."
"Don't be afraid, dear. I'd not meddle. But—" She looked appealingly at Courtney—"please, dear—do let me!"
"Richard and I would both resent it equally."
"But what will become of you!"
Her tone was so forlorn that Courtney had to laugh. "Why, I'm barely twenty-five—and I know a lot about several things—and could learn more."
"Don't talk that way!" cried Helen, tearful. "It makes me shiver. It sounds so coarse and common." She looked at Courtney as if doubtful of her sanity. "I can't make you out. It isn't natural for a lady bred and born, as you are, to say such things."
"You can't believe a real lady could have ideas of self-respect? Well, I'll admit they do seem out of place in my head—and give me awful sinkings at the heart. And—" There was a mocking smile round Courtney's lips, a far-away look in her eyes—"Sometimes I'm haunted by a horrible dread that I'm merely—bluffing."
Helen saw only the smile. "I'm sure you are, you dear, sweet, fascinating child!" cried she, greatly consoled and cheered.
"Don't be too sure!" warned Courtney, the smile fading.
But Helen was delighted to see that she said it half heartedly—that some effect had been produced by the grewsome reminders of the difference between independence as a dream or a vague longing and independence in the grisly reality of the working out.