“Good-looking chap,” he said.
“Isn’t he?” said Helena enthusiastically. “I sat out all night with him, just for the pleasure of looking at him.”
Van Rhuys frowned and turned away. He had wished more than once that Helena Belmont, doubly fascinating as her unconventionality made her, had been brought up in New York. He had had more than one spasm of premonitory horror, but had reminded himself that none knew better than she how to be grande dame if she chose.
When they reached the house he went to his room to clean up, then sought Helena in her boudoir. She was leaning over the back of a chair, tipping it nervously.
“I want to say something right away,” she said as he closed the door. “I want you to release me—I cannot marry you.”
Van Rhuys pressed his lips together and half closed his eyes. But he merely asked, “What is the reason?”
“I am going to marry Mr. Clive.”
“You are going to do what?” Van Rhuys’ eyes opened very wide. He understood Helena little, and one of her enduring charms was her quality of the unexpected. “Are you speaking of the man who is engaged to Miss Gordon?”
“Yes, that is the man. I am not joking.”
“You mean that you are going to try to cut that poor girl out?”