Edith did not answer--she smiled a little. After a moment’s pause she said:
“You’re my friend, Helen?”
“Don’t speak as if I had dozens,” said Helen. “I’ve only had one, and I don’t forget.”
“Then you’ll laugh him away very gently--so gently that it won’t reach very far down?” cried Edith.
“There isn’t very far to reach,” replied Helen irritably. “I don’t see why you always want to be saving people pain; pain does good.”
“Does it?” asked Edith. Her eyes met Helen of Troy’s; they looked a long time into each other’s eyes.
“No,” said Helen at last, “it starves, it ages, it embitters, it doesn’t do good.”
“Well, I’d rather have it done to me than do it to other people,” said Edith. “It’s rather more responsibility than I care to undertake.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” said Helen of Troy with a reckless gesture; “it’s a game like any other game. I wanted to pay back your score for you. I knew you’d never do it. I kept out of your way, I never let on, and I didn’t suppose you’d find out for a day or two. I’m going to-morrow. I thought the little fool couldn’t tell you enough for you to work on, the first time he had spoken to you for years.”
“He showed me your miniature,” said Edith gravely.