She tore it into small pieces and hummed a tune.
“It is enough,” she murmured. “I am not ambitious any longer. I am going to London, it is true, my dear uncle, but not to Kensington! You can play Richelieu to Henri and my cousin, if it pleases you. I wonder——”
Her face grew softer and more thoughtful. Suddenly she laughed outright to herself. She went and sat down on the couch, where Wolfenden had been lying.
“It would have been simpler,” she said to herself. “How like a man to think of such a daring thing. I wish—I almost wish—I had consented. What a delightful sensation it would have made. Cécile will laugh when I tell her of this. To her I have always seemed ambitious, and ambitious only ... and now I have found out that I have a heart only to give it away. Hélas!”
There was a knock at the door. A servant entered.
“Miss Merton would be glad to know if you could spare her a moment before you left, Miss,” the man announced.
Helène glanced at the clock.
“I am going very shortly,” she said; “she had better come in now.”
The man withdrew, but returned almost immediately, ushering in Miss Merton. For the first time Helène noticed how pretty the girl was. Her trim, dainty little figure was shown off to its utmost advantage by the neat tailor gown she was wearing, and there was a bright glow of colour in her cheeks. Helène, who had no liking for her uncle’s typewriter, and who had scarcely yet spoken to her, remained standing, waiting to hear what she had to say.