“I have forgotten.”
“What was the name of the woman you loved the most?”
Fair faces rose before him, tearful faces, pleading faces, angry faces–he could not choose between them.
“I do not know,” he said faintly.
She glanced round the room as if she, too, saw the faces that had risen so clearly before his mental eyes.
“You were not kind or loyal to one of them,” she said.
Philip Wharton laughed.
“Tell me your name,” he insisted.
“You have forgotten it, and you do not know it,” she returned quickly. “Once I was called Helen, but that was a long time ago.”