The clerk he dreaded to meet was off duty, and as the elevator boy knew him he did not approach the desk, but went at once to Helen's apartments.
She did not meet him at the door as he had foolishly expected. Delia, the maid, greeted him with a smile, and led him back to the reception-room and left him alone.
He heard Helen's voice, the rustle of her dress, and then she stood before him. As he looked into her face and read love and pity in her eyes he lost all fear, all doubt, and caught her hand in both of his, unable to speak a word in his defence—unable even to tell her of his gratitude and love.
She recovered herself first, and, drawing back, looked at him searchingly. "You poor fellow, you've been working like mad. You are ill!"
"No, I am not ill—only tired. I have had only one thought, one aim since I saw you last, that was to write something to restore you to your old place——"
"I do not want to be restored. Now listen, Lord Douglass. If I do Alessandra, it is because we both need the money and the prestige; but I do not despair, and you must not. Please let me manage this whole affair; will you?"
"I am your slave."
"Don't say such things. I don't want you to be humble. I want you to be as brave, as proud as before."
She said this in such a tone that he rose to it. His face reset in lines of resolution. "I will not be humble with any other human being but you. I worship you."
She stood for a moment looking at him fixedly, a smile of pride and tender dream on her lips, then said, "You must not say such things to me—not now." The bell rang. "Here comes your new-found admirers," she exclaimed, gleefully. "Now, you sit here, a little in the shadow, and I will bring them in."