“What ought I to say?” Suzanne was thinking within herself. She would have to tell all the stories about the duke and Helia, and perhaps about Phil,—“and I who don’t know how to lie!”
Ethel quietly took her seat by grandma, without speaking to Suzanne of anything at all.
“It’s Helia’s day,” she thought. “It would be bad taste to crush the brave young girl with my dresses when she has only simple things.”
“Very well, Suzanne,” Ethel said aloud. “I do not need you for the present. See that everything is ready for this evening—a simple street-gown.”
Ethel’s curiosity, however, had been excited. What could there have been in common between the duke and Helia and Suzanne? She now remembered a few passing words. Caracal had finally told her his story of the Louvre gardener, and Adam and Eve. She recalled his expressions. Phil never spoke to her of Helia, although he recounted willingly the adventures of his youth. Against this were his occasional embarrassment, certain hidden allusions, and his salon portrait of the young girl in the midst of flowers surrounded by a flight of doves; and then, why should Phil, only yesterday, have dropped his eyes and blushed at the mad bravery of Helia? Did he, then, know the secret of it?
It was not pleasant to Ethel to go into such questions. Helia’s melancholy, and her daring, her seeking for death when she was only twenty—it was not natural! Miss Rowrer did not need to know more. She understood all, so she believed.
CHAPTER VIII
FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE!
Later in the day Suzanne appeared, and timidly begged Miss Rowrer to excuse her. “Mademoiselle Helia has gone from the tarpaulin—she is swimming straight for the cliff. If Miss Rowrer would be good enough to go on deck, perhaps Mademoiselle Helia—” As for her, Suzanne, she could do nothing—she had called in vain.
Miss Rowrer followed Suzanne, but Helia was already far away.
“She would not listen to me,” said Suzanne. “I don’t know what came over her.”