'The leaves will wilt pretty soon,' he found fault in spite of himself. He was a little ashamed even while he was speaking. 'The flowers will die, and then——'
Helen was already seated within, smiling, looking placid and unconcerned.
'By then,' she announced lightly, 'I'll be gone; so it won't matter.'
'Gone?' he demanded sharply. 'Where?'
'East. Mr. Carr has gone on ahead. We are to meet him in New York.'
He sat down upon a rock just outside her door and made no attempt to hide what was in his heart. He had thought to have lost her when he came to the spot whence the cabin had vanished; he had found her here; he was going to lose her again. . . . Helen's heart quickened at his look, and she lowered her head, pretending to be occupied exclusively with a thistle that had caught on her skirt, afraid that he would know.
'Why are you going like this?' he asked suddenly.
She appeared to hesitate.
'I ought not to say anything against one of your friends,' she said with a great show of ingenuousness. 'But, Mrs. Murray——'
Explosively he cut her short. 'You know that she is not a friend of mine and that she has never been and never will be a friend of mine. Why do you say that?'