“Yes,” said Helia. “My father’s family claimed her, but it was a little late, was it not? I have kept her, thanks to several friends—M. Socrate, the poet, among the rest.”
“Socrate!” said Phil. “I know a person of that name. It can’t be the same—mine is a painter.”
“So is mine.”
“He is a sculptor also,” added Phil.
“It must be the same man,” said Helia.
“Impossible!” thought Phil. “Socrate a friend of Helia! How can they have met?”
Phil thought of the life of Helia in circuses and music-halls—the coarse environment where art touches elbows with shamelessness. “What influences have been around her,” he thought in sadness, “during all this time in which I have not seen her?”
“Socrate does many kind little things for me,” Helia went on. “He posts my letters and makes himself useful. He’s a man who will be celebrated some day; oh, you will see!”
So spoke Helia, in the spirit of loyalty. In reality she cared little enough for Socrate; but it pleased her to let Phil think that she cared for him. So much the worse if Phil should be vexed! Had he been afraid to give pain? Since she has been in the studio he has not once kissed her!
Helia rose to go away.