“Wasteful?” Helen laughed her pretty laugh. “I suppose I may as well tell you the whole story! I’m thinking of ‛commencing author,’ as our British cousins say. I can write!”
“Sure. You can do anything,” said Kit, sincerely.
“Richard Latham lives here. I’ve never met him, often as I’ve been to Cleavedge. You know him, don’t you? I wish you’d take me to see him, Kit. I’d like his help. I’ve begun something and I’d like to insinuate myself into his acquaintance till I’d dare ask him what it amounts to.” Helen waited, watching Kit under drooping lids.
“That’s easy,” said Kit, unsuspiciously. “I’ll take you there.”
“Good boy!” said Helen, lying back against her pillow.
Plainly Kit did not suspect the long, confidential talk in which his aunt and she that afternoon had discussed him and his possible error in taste and judgment.
“Oh, Kit, how I must have bored you! What a good sort you are to be so patient! As if I had to decide my problem the minute I got here! But you did look so sane and reliable when I first saw you! Let’s put off the momentous decision of vacillating Helen’s fate till the next time—or far longer! I’m getting sleepy, and your aunt must be through with those fictitious letters.”
Helen flung herself off the couch and went out of the room in advance of Kit.
“You smell of cigarettes,” said Miss Carrington as they came up to her.
Helen went closer and laid her long hands on the old lady’s head, as if to bless her.