“We left, of course, and Helen of Troy went back to America (did I tell you she was half-Jewish and half-American?). She had a friend on the stage who had offered her a part. She never told me her real name. I always called her ‘Helen,’ and though she promised to write to me I have never heard from her since. I expect she thought I might try to trace her.
“That is the whole and entire story of Helen of Troy, and I’m afraid, my dear Horace, that you can no longer consider me the most sensible woman in the world.”
Horace took her hand in his and kissed it.
“I wish I had married you ten years ago,” he said gently. Then he remembered Annette. He let her hand drop suddenly, and walked quickly to the window.
“It’s half-past ten,” said Edith, and then she moved past him and ran hastily upstairs, because she did not wish him to say good-night to her while he was remembering Annette.
Miss Lestrange’s comment on the story was characteristic.
“Dear me, Horace!” she said. “What an extraordinary tale! How strange those kind of people are! I suppose it never occurred to either the aunt or the niece to hire a trained nurse for the creature?”
And Horace hung his head, because there are some explanations which the children of light are ashamed to put to the children of this world, who are so much wiser.
V
Miss Lestrange called the next day upon her future sister-in-law. She took a chair with the resigned manner of a woman who will try to be as comfortable as she can, and she talked to Edith with a detached but patient cordiality.