The eager eyes looked peremptorily into hers.
"Yes," said Mrs. Friend shyly—"I'm very fond of some things. But you'd think them old-fashioned!"
"What—Byron?—Shelley? They're never old-fashioned!"
"I never read much of them. But—I love Tennyson—and Mrs. Browning."
Helena made a face—
"Oh, I don't care a hang for her. She's so dreadfully pious and sentimental. I laughed till I cried over 'Aurora Leigh.' But now—French things! If you lived all that time in France, you must have read French poetry. Alfred de Musset?—Madame de Noailles?"
Mrs. Friend shook her head.
"We went to lectures. I learnt a great deal of Racine—a little Victor
Hugo—and Rostand—because the people I boarded with took me to
'Cyrano'!"
"Ah, Rostand—" cried Helena, springing up. "Well, of course he's vieux jeu now. The best people make mock of him. Julian does. I don't care—he gives me thrills down my back, and I love him. But then panache means a good deal to me. And Julian doesn't care a bit. He despises people who talk about glory and honour—and that kind of thing. Well—Lucy—"
She stopped mischievously, her head on one side.