Madame Leroux came to the door, with a letter in her hand.
“Pour Madame!” she said, with her large smile, giving it to Bridget.
She glanced at the envelope. “I think I will read it out here,” she said, turning to Helen. Her voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in it. She turned back a few steps to a vine-shaded arbor, where there was a wooden table and some forms. Breakfast was usually served out of doors at the Café des Sapins.
Helen went into the house. As she was crossing the flagged passage leading to the salon, ten minutes later, Bridget stood on the threshold. She held the letter clasped in one hand.
“He is coming to-morrow,” she said, as she passed her friend on the way upstairs. Helen had a glimpse of her happy eyes, and turned aside into the garden, with a half smile and a sigh.
After they had gone upstairs that night, Mrs. Trelawney knocked at Bridget’s bedroom door.
“Come in,” she called, turning as the door opened. She was sitting at the toilet-table, in a little white wrapper, with her hair all loose about her face.
“You look like a little girl again, with your hair down,” Helen said, seating herself on the bed, and watching her as she brushed and arranged it.
“I’ve been thinking of myself as I was, as a little girl, to-night,” she answered, pausing, brush in hand, to glance at herself in the glass. Her face was grave.