He gave her his arm, assuring himself that if she didn't care for him there were hundreds who did. Lady Helen was one of the handsomest women in London, and he fancied she was thinking of him. And when he returned he stood at the door watching her as she leaned over the mantelpiece reading a letter. She did not put it away at once, but continued reading and playing with the letter as one might with something conclusive and important. She took no precaution against his seeing it, and he noticed that it was in a man's handwriting, and began Ma chère amie. The room was now empty, and the clatter of knives and forks drowned the strains of a waltz.
"You seemed to be very much occupied with that young person. She is very pretty. I advise you to take care."
"I don't want to marry. I shall never marry. Did you think I was in love with Miss Young?"
"Well, it looked rather like it."
"No; I swear you are mistaken. I say, if you don't care about dancing we'll sit down and talk. So you thought I was in love with Miss Young? How could I be in love with her while you are in the room? You know, you must have seen, that I have only eyes for you. The last time I was in Paris I went to see you in the Louvre."
"You say I am like Jean Gougon's statue."
"I think so, so far as a pair of stays allows me to judge."
Lady Helen laughed, but there was no pleasure in her laugh; it was a hard, bitter laugh.
"If only you knew how indifferent I am! What does it matter whether I am like the statue or not? I am indifferent to everything."
"But I admire you because you are like the statue."