Helen returned her gaze in unaffected surprise. "I don't know what you mean. Why do you laugh?"
"Nothing." Courtney was painting again. "What are you going to do about Will Arbuthnot?"
"Why, be perfectly honest with him," cried Helen, injured and reproachful. "I simply couldn't be deceitful."
"Tell him you've found you can make a better match? Oh, you mustn't do that."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Helen, horrified. "That wouldn't be the truth. No, I'll tell him I find I don't love him as a woman should love the man she's to give herself to. You know I've got the old-fashioned ideals—that is, ideas—of the sacredness of womanhood. He'll understand."
"Yes," said Courtney gravely, though her eyes were dancing, "he'll have a deeper reverence for true womanhood.... Well, the men deserve it. They're responsible for our not daring to be our natural human selves."
"But I am natural, dear," remonstrated Helen warmly.
Courtney was busily trying for a shade of brown on her palette. "You're sure Basil won't hear of your other engagement? Remember, he knows several Saint X people."
"I made an agreement with Will that we'd keep it a secret until we got ready to marry." Courtney laughed again; it was so obvious what lingering longing and hope had prompted this precaution. "What are you laughing at now?" asked Helen.
"I wouldn't spoil your innocence by telling you," replied Courtney. And she rose and, palette in one hand, brush in the other, kissed her affectionately. "I'm glad you're happy—and I'm sure you'll always be happy."