Helène said nothing, but a tell-tale blush spoke volumes. Morton laughed and said that Miss Fisher was right; he’d take full advantage of her forbearance.
Suiting his action to the word he drew his chair more closely to Helène, and before many minutes had passed the two had quite forgotten Margaret’s presence.
“I have kept my promise, Mr. Morton. I sent the letter this morning and it would have reached you on Monday—the first day of autumn. You will believe that I have never forgotten your kindness to me, Mr. Morton. It was, indeed, not ingratitude that kept me silent.”
“I am too happy to think of finding fault. Now that we have met again, I shall say not a word of censure. You are looking very well. Ah, Miss Barton, I give you warning that you won’t lose me again. To think that you should have been in New York for these five long months when I have searched the continent of Europe for you!”
“I know now, Mr. Morton, that it was, perhaps, wrong of me not to have communicated with you earlier. But I am very happy now.”
“I cannot tell you how glad I am!”
“I have been very content of late in my independence. It makes me proud to be able to say that.”
“I can well believe it,” responded Morton thoughtfully.
“But—Mr. Morton—it is all owing to Margy. She was and still is my good angel. I don’t know what I should have done without her. She has been my comfort and stay and the most patient and dearest friend in the world.”
Helène stretched her arm across the table and pressed Margaret’s hand, the tears filling her eyes. Margaret blushed and stroked Helène’s slender fingers. Praise always called up her innate modesty of nature. “You think too much of me, darling,” she whispered, smiling happily.