Helen estimated him anew as she arose to greet him. A glance would reveal Christopher Carrington a gentleman; that he could be trusted; that he was kind and upright and that, if he were not brilliant, he had excellent mental powers.
“He does very well,” thought Helen, and extended her hand with a hearty friendliness that instantly demolished Kit’s barriers and made him slightly ashamed.
It was caddish to have it in mind to refuse a hand that was held out as one boy greets another; after all, Helen might not be cognizant of his aunt’s plan, still less coöperating with it.
Kit saw a girl as tall as he was, slender, with perfect dignity and grace of carriage; a handsome face, a well-shaped head upborne with spirit by a rounded neck that had the sweep of line that is best shown by an evening gown. The carefully arranged hair was pale gold in colour; not yellow, but the shade of the palest jonquils.
“She’d look well at a court,” thought Kit, involuntarily recalling what his aunt had hinted of a future embassy through ex-Governor Abercrombie’s influence. But what he said aloud was:
“Hallo, Helen! You’re beating yourself at your own game!”
“Hallo, Kit! It’s this becoming gown. You look uncommonly fit, and aren’t ugly to-night, yourself,” retorted Helen. “It’s fine to see you again, nice Kitten! I like to come here because I can do and say and be exactly as I feel!”
“Yes. I don’t know another girl to whom I can talk as I do to you, Nell,” said Kit, cordially, his old familiarity with her springing up now that he saw Helen in the body. His aunt’s attitude toward her was lost in Helen’s own frank attitude toward himself.
Miss Carrington’s maid announced dinner and Miss Carrington turned to Kit, all gracious smiles and pleasure as she saw the admiration for Helen in Kit’s eyes.
“Take Helen out, Kit. We aren’t a party, but she, being guest, may have as much as that of a dinner party,” she said.