“Thank you for remembering it. Yet I can hardly believe you correct. Your face is not one to be forgotten. Are you quite sure?”
“Yes, I remember you perfectly.”
There was something in Helen’s manner which the young man could not quite fathom. It made him uneasy, for Helen’s grave tone rendered it doubtful whether the recollection was a pleasant one.
“May I ask where, and under what circumstances, we met?” he inquired.
“I was, at that time, singing at the —— Theatre,” returned Helen, composedly. “You followed me in the street when on my return home, and sought to force your company upon me. But for the opportune arrival of a friend, I should have been obliged to submit to the insult.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Albert Grover, “are you the young singer who made such a sensation? I cannot understand it.”
“Fortunes have changed with me,” said Helen. “Otherwise, I can well understand that you would never have honored me with your proposal of this morning. I think, Mr. Grover, you will hardly require any other answer.”
She left the room with dignity, leaving her suitor crestfallen, and entirely satisfied of the hopelessness of his suit.
Meanwhile, where was Herbert Coleman?
Shortly after Mr. Ford’s accession to fortune, he sent for the young artist at Helen’s instigation, and questioned him delicately as to his plans and wishes. Herbert acknowledged frankly his conviction, that a residence in Italy, the cradle of art, would be of inestimable advantage to him in his professional career.