She stood before the glass arranging her hat, a radiant figure. Helen looked at her wistfully. There was nothing this girl wanted, surely, that she could not have; and yet she seemed so restless and dissatisfied.
"Do you go out much?" she asked.
"Not very much," said Helen. "My school keeps me busy." She did not say that she knew so very few young people she had no one to go with.
Miss Graham turned to the mirror again. She seemed embarrassed. "The lake's lovely here for paddling. Only the season is nearly over. Have you been out on the water much?" She did not look at the girl as she asked the question.
"No," said Helen, and the other faced round and stared at her. "I don't know how to paddle and I am rather afraid of a canoe."
"Do you mean to say you've never been on the lake since you came here?" asked Leslie Graham, standing and staring with a hat-pin in her mouth.
"Oh, yes, I was—once," said Helen innocently. She did not think it necessary to tell all about Roderick's rescue of her from the point; for already she had heard the Misses Armstrong coupling his name with their niece's in tones of high disapproval. "I was once—but only once."
Leslie Graham's face grew radiant.
"Is that all?" she cried in a tone expressing decided relief.
She amazed Helen by suddenly darting towards her and putting her arm around her. "Why you poor little lonesome thing," she cried, "you must learn to paddle; I will teach you myself. Now, good-bye, I think we are going to be real good friends." She kissed Helen warmly and tripped out, singing a gay song, and leaving her late hostess standing amazed in the middle of her dishevelled room.