Blessington's loyal devotion rose triumphant.
"Eh, I know how busy you've been, Master Archie," she said, "and I know what a thoughtless body I am with your things. But I'd like you to be angry with me fifty times, if you'll only come back to me at the end. There pray-a-don't kiss my hand, dear. It isn't right for you to do that."
"Where's your darling face then?" said Archie. "If you don't give me a kiss this minute, I shall know you've been flirting with father's keeper again."
Blessington gave a little squeal of laughter.
"Eh, and him dead this twenty years," she said. "And you know, my dear, that whatever you did, and asked me to give you a kiss afterwards, give it you I would, because nothing you could do would stop my loving you."
Blessington's love, Helena's love… which was real? Two things so utterly different could not both be love. And for him, too, which love was real, his love for Blessington, all ashed over save for the little spark that somehow lived below the cold cinders, or his love for Helena that blazed and scintillated? Suddenly the thought of that glowed within him, and it seemed dreadful to kiss this withered cheek. And yet the dim old eyes had never wavered in their loyalty and love for his worthless, corrupted self.
"And shall we have a talk this evening again before dinner?" he asked.
"Eh, that would be nice if you're not too busy," said she.
"All right, then. But I must run along now: Jessie's waiting."
"That'll never do to keep her waiting," said Blessington. "And if you're going on the lake, Master Archie, pray be careful and don't fall in."