She seemed quite herself at luncheon, and Latham was the life and the jest of the table. Women are bred so; and such is the craft of his trade.
Even Stephen watching jealously—he had known of the tête-à-tête of the morning—learned nothing. And Caroline Leavitt rejoiced and was grateful to see the girl so much more nearly herself.
But still Stephen watched—and waited.
At twilight he found Helen alone in the library. He joined her almost timidly, fearing she might drive him away. He sensed well enough that she wished to be alone. But she neither welcomed nor dismissed him.
“I didn’t know you were ill, Helen,” he said, seating himself where he could see her face well.
“I am not ill,” she replied, a little impatiently, rising and crossing the room, and standing at the window, facing it, not him.
“But you sent for Latham.”
Helen made no answer.
Stephen persisted, “And you carried him off to your room after breakfast, and said plainly enough, that you wished to be undisturbed there.”
“Yes, and I meant it. But it was to talk to him of something quite different from my health.”