She was standing quietly looking about the well-loved room; and he could see that she was holding back her tears with difficulty. Almost he wished that she would not restrain them—though he liked to see a woman’s weeping as little as most men do—so drawn and set was her face.
“Who is it?” she asked presently.
“It’s I, Helen.”
She turned to him wearily—then turned to the table; he put out his hand to restrain her, but she did not see, or she ignored it, and took up the green and pink jade and wiped it carefully with her handkerchief. A strange rapt look grew in her face, as she pressed the cambric into the difficult crannies of the intricate, delicate carving. She sighed when she had finished, and put the little fetish down—very carefully, just where it had stood before.
“Is—is anything wrong, Helen?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here? You said you couldn’t come.”
“I know, but at the last minute I had to.”
“You had to?”
“Yes,” she answered wearily, seating herself on the broad window-seat. “Have you looked over Daddy’s papers?”