He laughed, and so did she—yes, after a little pause.
“Come again—soon,” she said, as she gave him her hand, which he retained for some moments while he looked into her eyes—they were more than usually lustrous—and said,
“Oh, yes, I will come again soon. Don’t you remember what I said to you in this room—it seems long ago, we have come to be such close friends since—what I said about my aspirations—my supreme aspiration?”
“I remember it,” said she—her voice was very low.
“I have still to reveal it to you, Beatrice,” said he.
Then he dropped her hand and was gone.
He made another call the same afternoon. He drove westward to the residence of Helen Craven and her mother, and in the drawing-room he found about a dozen people drinking tea, for Mrs. Craven had a large circle.
It took him some time to get beside Helen; but a very small amount of manoeuvring on her part was sufficient to secure comparative privacy for him and herself in a dimly-lighted part of the great room—an alcove that made a moderately valid excuse for a Moorish arch and hangings.
“The advice that I gave to you was good,” said he.
“Your advice was that I should make no move whatever,” said she. “That could not be hard advice to take, if he were disposed to make any move in my direction. But, as I told you, he only called once, and then we were out. Have you learned anything?”