"I hope monsieur will pardon me," she said humbly. "I am committing a great impertinence. But I think monsieur is not very kind to Mlle. Celie."
Wethermill stared at her.
"What on earth do you mean?" he asked angrily.
Helene Vauquier looked him quietly in the face.
"It is plain, monsieur, that Mlle. Celie loves monsieur. Monsieur has led her on to love him. But it is also plain to a woman with quick eyes that monsieur himself cares no more for mademoiselle than for the button on his coat. It is not very kind to spoil the happiness of a young and pretty girl, monsieur."
Nothing could have been more respectful than the manner in which these words were uttered. Wethermill was taken in by it. He protested earnestly, fearing lest the maid should become an enemy.
"Helene, it is not true that I am playing with Mlle. Celie. Why should I not care for her?"
Helene Vauquier shrugged her shoulders. The question needed no answer.
"Why should I seek her so often if I did not care?"
And to this question Helene Vauquier smiled-a quiet, slow, confidential smile.