He sprang to help her; the sleeve of her muslin dress fell away from her arm as she lifted the little flicker of the match to the tall brass candlestick on the mantel. He took the match from her, and touched the candle. In the dusk they looked at each other with a kind of fear. Bayard was very pale.
Helen had her rich, warm look. She appeared taller than usual, and seemed to stand more steadily on her feet than other women.
“Do you want me to thank you?” asked Bayard in a low voice.
“No,” said Helen.
“I must go,” he said abruptly.
“Mother will be back,” observed Helen, not at her ease. “And Father will be getting on with the Unforgiven, and come home any minute.”
“Very well,” replied Bayard, seating himself.
“Not that I would keep you!” suggested Helen suddenly.
He smiled a little sadly, and this time unexpectedly rose again.