She stood at the door. The light outside was very low; so was the light in the room.
Between two dim lights was where Helen looked her best. A fact of which she was well aware.
She seemed almost pretty as she stood there.
She had made up pale, which she considered appropriately sympathetic on her part. And, indeed, there can scarcely be a difference of opinion on this point.
In delicate matters of taste like this she rarely-made a mistake.
“It was so good of you to come,” said he, taking her hand.
“I could not help it, Harold,” said she.
“Mamma is in the brougham; she desired me to convey to you her deepest sympathy.”
“I am indeed touched by her thoughtfulness,” said Harold. “You will tell her so.”
“Mamma is not very strong,” said Helen. “She would not come in with me. She, too, has suffered deeply. But I felt that I must tell you face to face how terribly shocked we were—how I feel for you with all my heart. We have always been good friends—the best of friends, Harold—at least, I do not know where I should look in the world for another such friend as you.”