He heard but a part of this. The memory of Raymond's face as he had seen it when the young man strode out of the cloakroom and out of the hotel came back to him and with it a great heart-throbbing sense of relief, of triumph. He seized her hand.
“Helen,” he cried, “did he—did you tell him—Oh, by George, Helen, you're the most wonderful girl in the world! I'm—I—Oh, Helen, you know I—I—”
It was not his habit to be at a loss for words, but he was just then. He tried to retain her hand, to put his arm about her.
“Oh, Helen!” he cried. “You're wonderful! You're splendid! I'm crazy about you! I really am! I—”
She pushed him gently away. “Don't! Please don't!” she said. “Oh, don't!”
“But I must. Don't you see I. . . . Why, you're crying!”
Her face had, for a moment, been upturned. The moon at that moment had slipped behind a cloud, but the lamplight from the window had shown him the tears in her eyes. He was amazed. He could have shouted, have laughed aloud from joy or triumphant exultation just then, but to weep! What occasion was there for tears, except on Ed Raymond's part?
“You're crying!” he repeated. “Why, Helen—!”
“Don't!” she said, again. “Oh, don't! Please don't talk that way.”
“But don't you want me to, Helen? I—I want you to know how I feel. You don't understand. I—”