"Queen, thou art not the fairest now;
Snow-white over the mountain's brow
A thousand times fairer is than thou.
"Poor Queen; poor all of us. I'm good, Helen," she repeated, whisking out of the room.
"Such a chatterbox!" the goddess said. "But, John, am I really so much altered? Is it true that—just at first, you know, of course—you didn't know me?"
She bent on me the breathless look I had seen before. In her eagerness, it was as if the halo of joy that surrounded her were quivering.
"I know you now; you are my Helen!"
Again I would have caught her in my arms; but she moved uneasily.
"Wait—I—you haven't told me," she stammered; "I—I want to talk to you, John."
She put out a hand as if to fend me off, then let it fall. A sudden heart sickness came upon me. It was not her words, not the movement that chilled me, but the paling of the wonderful light of her face, the look that crept over it, as if I had startled a nymph to flight. I was angry with my clumsy self that I should have caused that look, and yet—from my own Helen, not this lovely, poising creature that hardly seemed to touch the earth—I should have had a different greeting!
I gazed at her from where I stood, then I turned to the window. The rattle of street cars came up from below. A child was sitting on the bench where I had sat and feasted my eyes upon the flutter of Helen's curtains. My numb brain vaguely speculated whether that child could see me. The sun had gone, the square was wintry.
After a long minute Helen followed me.