"And"—Henriette smiling quite sweetly took an excruciatingly long time to say it—"you love him yourself. Is that it?"
Helen was silent, her eyes downcast, feeling all the blood in her body running to her face. To have the question put bluntly—this question which she had never put to herself!
"How you blush!" Henriette remarked. "Oh, I've watched you plotting! I know!"
Helen looked up and her glance was so steady and prolonged that Henriette averted hers.
"No, I have not plotted. I plot for such a purpose! One does not know what is in one's heart and one does not say 'no' or 'yes' if it means lying. I am going away, so I'll leave it to you. He shall not know that it was not you."
"On the contrary, on thinking it out I've concluded to win my own proposals—I think I'm capable of it," she smiled charmingly, "and not to work in pairs in affairs of this kind."
"That is better," Helen agreed. "It's more straightforward for me."
"And gives you a chance, too," said Henriette benignly. "As it's dark, perhaps he may take pity and elope with you to-night."
"In that case," Helen replied, with an effort at humour, "we shall be breakfasting in Paris and not at Mervaux."
As she held the door open before starting on her errand she hesitated, thinking that perhaps Henriette might ask forgiveness for the blow which still stung her cheek. But Henriette gave no sign for contrition and Helen made no further overture. Sturdily as a grenadier she marched down the stairs and out into the grounds to have the agony of her confession to Philip Sanford over as speedily as possible. She was suffering horribly, but the spirit of a new freedom possessed her. She blessed that thousand francs and uttered a silent prayer for M. Vailliant, out there in his place among the walls of men trying to stem the tide of invasion, in a way that would have made him feel that he had not been an art dealer in vain.