“I wish you might. By and by you must. And she must know you. Helen, I—I feel so ashamed of—of—”
“Hush, or I shall begin to think you are ashamed because you liked me—or thought you did.”
“But I do like you. Next to Madeline there is no one I like so much. But, but, you see, it is different.”
“Of course it is. And it ought to be. Does her mother—do her people know of the engagement?”
He hesitated momentarily. “No-o,” he admitted, “they don't yet. She and I have decided to keep it a secret from any one for the present. I want to get on a little further with my writing, you know. She is like you in that, Helen—she's awfully fond of poetry and literature.”
“Especially yours, I'm sure. Tell me about your writing. How are you getting on?”
So he told her and, until they stood together at the parsonage gate, Madeline's name was not again mentioned. Then Helen put out her hand.
“Good morning, Albert,” she said. “I'm glad we have had this talk, ever so glad.”
“By George, so am I! You're a corking friend, Helen. The chap who does marry you will be awfully lucky.”
She smiled slightly. “Perhaps there won't be any such chap,” she said. “I shall always be a schoolmarm, I imagine.”