"I love dress," said Helena, superfluously. "And women forgive your beauty and brains so much more willingly if you divert their attention by the one thing their soul can admire without bitterness."
"You have not grown cynical, Helena?" asked Magdaléna, anxiously.
"A little. It's a phase of extreme youth which must run its course with the down on the peach. I fought against it because I want to be original, but you might as well fight against a desire to sing at the top of your voice when you are happy. But, you darling! I'm so glad to see you again."
She flung herself on her knees beside Magdaléna and demanded to be kissed. Magdaléna, who could hardly realise that she was back, and whose loves were as fixed as the roots of the redwoods, gave her a great hug.
"Tell me, 'Léna, am I improved? Am I beautiful? Am I a great beauty?"
"You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen. Of course I have not seen the great beauties of Europe—"
"They are not a patch to ours. When I was presented, there were eight professionals standing round, and I walked away from the lot of them. Am I more beautiful than Tiny, or Ila, or Caro, or Mrs. Washington?"
"Oh, yes! yes!"
"How? They are really very beautiful."
"I know; but you are—you know I never could express myself."