Regardless of all excitement of the day before, and of the change that had come into my life, I slept late Sunday morning. The reason was that, because of night duty at the factory, it was the first sleep for twenty-four hours. All the thinking and plans I had intended to do and make while in bed faded into a dreamless unconsciousness. I awoke without having decided on the best approach to Helen's family. Business was not yet in such shape that I could offer a strong financial argument to so keen a business man as Mr. Claybourne, nor had I any idea what my own family would think of me. Letters were not an ideal means of communication. Could I express in black and white how adorable Helen was—she who was all intangible charm and delight? These and many other disturbing thoughts came to me as I shaved. It was curious that every fresh step in life opened up such vistas of unforeseen problems! Nothing was as one had imagined it would be.
On my way out Myrtle Boulevard I passed a florist's—the florist shops kept open until church time in Deep Harbor—and bought Helen a bunch of Parma violets; they were her favourites, and to me violets symbolized her. She was sitting up, her foot on a rest and "Mother" hovering about, when I arrived. Helen reported the doctor's opinion as favourable—a bad wrench, but requiring merely rest and quiet. "Mother" was more pessimistic; with a knee one never knew what would happen; a friend of hers had a daughter no older than Helen who had been made lame for life by less; still, it was what she had always expected, only no one ever listened to her advice, least of all Helen; had she not warned her again and again that horseback riding at all hours of the day and night was dangerous, to say nothing of being highly improper? Helen buried her nose in the violets and said nothing; I, too, had learned a measure of discretion where "mother" was concerned, and sat on the edge of my chair throughout the tirade. Mr. Claybourne rescued us.
"Now, mother," he said in his brisk way, "these kids want to talk it all over by themselves. You come into the library with me and read the scandal in the Sunday supplement. The best regulated horses will fall down sometimes; thank Heaven your daughter didn't break any bones, and be happy." He dragged her protesting away. Helen and I looked at one another, uncertain where to begin.
"It was like you, Ted, to bring me the violets, but you mustn't waste money on me any more. We'll need it all," she smiled—womanlike, recovering first. "Have we any money, Ted?"
I was hardly prepared for so direct a poser; yet even Arthur's knights sometimes had difficulties financing their quests. It was distinctly her right to know the truth.
"My present salary isn't enough," I admitted, "but by next summer, if the business is well on its feet, we can go to England. I have an interest in the factory given me by my father. It's up to Knowlton to make that good."
"England!" she dreamed. "I'll love it, Ted! It'll be hard to leave my father, though. Dear old dad adores me."
"I'm not surprised," I said, taking her slender white hand to my lips.
"You mustn't tease, Ted. I'm serious today. Why didn't you bring me Leonidas?" It was, of course, useless to object to Helen's categories of "serious things."
"I thought best to try 'mother' with one thing at a time. Leonidas is chewing a slipper under my study table. In the bathroom he will find a bowl of bread and milk at his convenience."