Then she turned round and faced Edith Lestrange.
“I came up unannounced,” said Edith. “I said you expected me. I don’t know whether you did. Oh, Helen--Helen; it’s you!”
Helen of Troy stood quite still, her arms dropped to her sides, and as she stood there a change came over her face; it was the same face, and yet the years came out in it--the suppressed, ignored, and baffled years; she could no more have passed--even with gullible youth--for twenty-five.
Edith came forward, her hands outstretched.
“Oh, Helen,” she said with a quiver in her voice, “am I so old you don’t remember me--twenty years ago?”
“Don’t!” said Helen of Troy.
She moistened her lips and put her hands up to her throat, then suddenly she began to laugh at first, just her old velvety laugh of music, and then suddenly distorted, bitter laughter--terrible to listen to--like harmony run mad.
“Oh, I remember you!” she cried between the gusts of her laughter. “I remember you all right, Edith.”
Edith came forward quietly; her face was very white and her eyes looked drawn and tired, but she drew the orange and white figure shaking with its bitter laughter to the sofa and sat down beside her.
“I know--I know,” she whispered gently; “don’t laugh so, Helen.”