They went out into the hall with her.
Horace said nothing. Once his eyes met hers. Horace’s eyes were blazing with fairly steady anger, but it was not all anger. Edith looked white and tired.
“Am I never going to see you again, Helen?” she murmured.
“In twenty years’ time,” said her friend. “Shan’t I make a nice old woman?”
Horace shook hands with her, and suddenly Helen of Troy smiled at him--it was a golden, appealing, melting smile. Her eyes took it up and held his in a kind of friendly laughter. Horace smiled back grimly.
“I am sure,” he said, “I needn’t wish you success.”
“You think I’ve got it?” she asked.
“Yes. I think you’ve got it,” said Horace Lestrange.
Then Edith kissed her, and standing together in the soft May weather the husband and wife watched her drive off into the night. Helen of Troy did not look back at them. She knew that they stood there together and loneliness was at her heart like a knife. What were all the shadows that surrounded her--the easy captives, the shallow victims of her radiant beauty--to that quiet union of strength? Countless, countless, they thronged the courts of memory, and unreal as the false dawn heralding the long gray hours they passed away.
“Oh, my God!” said Helen of Troy. “My men fight for me, but they leave me, and they never give me rest!”