I held the sheet out to Miss Helmont, and, when she had glanced at it, I sealed, stamped, and addressed it.
"Good-bye," I said then, and gave her the letter. As the door closed behind her I sank into my chair, and I am not ashamed to say that I cried like a child or a fool over my lost plaything—the little dark-haired woman who loved some one else with "body, soul, and spirit."
I did not hear the door open or any foot on the floor, and therefore I started when a voice behind me said—
"Are you so very unhappy? Oh, Arthur, don't think I am not sorry for you!"
"I don't want any one to be sorry for me, Miss Helmont," I said.
She was silent a moment. Then, with a quick, sudden, gentle movement she leaned down and kissed my forehead—and I heard the door softly close. Then I knew that the beautiful Miss Helmont loved me.
At first that thought only fleeted by—a light cloud against a grey sky—but the next day reason woke, and said—
"Was Miss Helmont speaking the truth? Was it possible that——?"
I determined to see Elvire, to know from her own lips whether by happy fortune this blow came, not from her, but from a woman in whom love might have killed honesty.
I walked from Hampstead to Gower Street. As I trod its long length, I saw a figure in pink come out of one of the houses. It was Elvire. She walked in front of me to the corner of Store Street. There she met Oscar Helmont. They turned and met me face to face, and I saw all I needed to see. They loved each other. Ida Helmont had spoken the truth. I bowed and passed on. Before six months were gone they were married, and before a year was over I had married Ida Helmont.