"Helen, don't! I'll go, but don't make me stay long. I'll go now," she said, and went on timid feet.
Helen stayed outside the door, for she could not bring herself to witness Mildred Caniper's betrayal of her decay to one who had never loved her: there was an indecency in allowing Miriam to see it. Helen leaned against the door and heard faint sounds of voices, and in imagination she saw the scene. Mildred Caniper sat in her comfortable chair by a bright fire, though it was now late June of a triumphant summer, and Miriam stood near, answering questions quickly, her feet light on the ground and ready to bear her off.
Very soon the door was opened and Miriam caught Helen's arm.
"I didn't think she would be like that," she whispered. "Helen, she's—she's—"
"I know she is," Helen said deeply.
"But I can't bear it!"
"You don't have to."
They went into Ph[oe]be's room and shut the door, and it was a comfort to Miriam to have two solid blocks of wood between her and the deterioration in the chair.
"I know I ought to stay with you—all alone in this house—no one to talk to—and at night—Are you afraid? Do you have to sleep with her?"
"Sometimes," Helen said, and drew both hands down her face.