Helena had stood listening, thoughtfully. Thought did not suit her soft-featured, facile face.
“But you must do what you like, and decide for yourself,” added her aunt, “as, with your character, you certainly will.”
“I thought I was so yielding,” protested Helena.
“You are, my dear, except when you care.”
“Then it’s you that have spoiled me,” answered Helena, tripping off.
The Baroness looked after her. “Dear girl,” she said to herself. “It will end in her marrying Gerard, I fancy. The book-writers may say what they like, but the woman who can, always marries for love.”
A few minutes later her husband came in. “My dear,” he said, “some of my papers are missing. I wish you would tell Mary to mind what she’s about.”
“Yes, my dear,” she replied, without looking up. Some of his papers were always missing. He always grumbled. It had come with his appointment to the high government post. For the first month or two she had fretted; then she had understood that it was part of his new importance, and she had returned to her old comfortable life. “Both the Helmonts are coming to lunch,” she said, “and one or two other people.”
“I don’t care who’s coming to lunch. I wish you minded more about my papers. They’re of very particular moment.”
“I do mind. I shall tell some one to find them at once on your table, for I’ve no doubt that they’re there. Mademoiselle”—this in French to a swarthy little lady who came gliding in—“would you mind looking for some papers Monsieur has left on his table—official papers—a dirty yellow, you know.”