Caracal shot a triumphant glance at Phil.
“You will allow me, cher ami?”—and he opened the little gallery to Miss Rowrer and the duke, while Helia, seated in the shadow, waited impatiently for the visitors to leave.
Gay laughter was heard. Miss Ethel and the duke came back. “Ah, charming! Couldn’t be more amusing,” said the duke. “A regular art-trap! I must get one myself, to catch fools.”
All left the studio except Phil, and Helia, who was to pose for him. They were already on the stairs, and Caracal, exasperated, went with them, like the legendary devil who disappears into the earth, carrying with him, instead of a soul, his cow painting under his arm. Behind him, in place of the classical odor of brimstone, there was only the fragrance of the Parma violets which Miss Rowrer let fall by accident as she went away.
The noise ceased on the staircase—Phil was already seated on the sofa beside Helia.
CHAPTER III
REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS
They looked at each other as if astonished to be once again together. Helia admired Phil, whom she found handsomer and stronger—more, indeed, of a man. Phil scanned the refined features of Helia: she seemed even more beautiful than in the old days.
Seated thus, hand in hand, eyes gazing into eyes, everything came back to memory: their first meeting in the little provincial town where Phil was studying, and where the circus in which Helia appeared had been set up; their simple, childish love, the pretty romance of their youth.
In the old days Phil used to speak to her with the familiar “thou”; here, in the quiet of the studio, alone with this beautiful young girl, it seemed too familiar, almost wanting in respect for her.
“Perhaps Phil is more intimidated than myself,” Helia thought in her surprise. “He has not even kissed me. But whether he speaks to me with a ‘thou’ or a ‘you’ matters little, provided he loves me still!”