I stood looking at her lovely shoulders for some time, but she made no sign.
“And therefore, finding you so fallen,” I resumed, “finding you only, after all, like the other worthless, parasitic women of the day, Miss Emory—Helena, I mean—I resolved to do what I could to educate you. And so I offer you the same footing that I do your nephew—good wages, good fare, and an opportunity to see the world.”
No answer whatever.
“Do you remember the Bay of Naples, at sunset, as we saw it when we first steamed in on the old City of Berlin, Helena?”
No answer.
“And do you recall Fuji-yama, with the white top—remember the rickshaw rides together, Helena?”
No answer.
“And then, the fiords of Norway, and the mountains? Or the chalk cliffs off Dover? And those sweet green fields of England—as we rode up to London town? And the taxis there, just you and I, Helena, with Aunt Lucinda happily evaded—just you and I? Yes, I am thinking of forcing Aunt Lucinda to walk the plank ere long, Helena. I want a world all my own, Helena, the world that was meant for us, Helena, made for us—a world with no living thing in it but yonder mocking-bird that’s singing; and you, and me.”
“Could you not dispense with the mocking-bird—and me?” she asked.
“No,” (I winced at her thrust, however). “No, not with you. And you know in your heart, in the bottom of your trifling and fickle and worthless heart, Helena Emory, that if it came to the test, and if life and all the world and all happiness were to be either all yours or all mine, I’d go anywhere, do anything, and leave it all to you rather than keep any for myself.”