The following morning as Helen was leaving the house she found this letter lying on the hall-table, and ran back with it to her rooms. A week before she would have let it lie on the table and read it on her return. She was conscious that this was what she would have done, and it pleased her to find that what concerned Philip was now to her the thing of greatest interest. She was pleased with her own eagerness—her own happiness was a welcome sign, and she was proud and glad that she was learning to care.
She read the letter with an anxious pride and pleasure in each word that was entirely new. Philip’s recriminations did not hurt her, they were the sign that he cared; nor did his determination not to speak of his love to her hurt her, for she believed him when he said that he would always care. She read the letter twice, and then sat for some time considering the kind of letter Philip would have written had he known her secret—had he known that the ring he had abandoned was now upon her finger.
She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the letter in a drawer, and then took it out again and re-read the last page. When she had finished it she was smiling. For a moment she stood irresolute, and then, moving slowly toward the centre-table, cast a guilty look about her and, raising her hands, lifted her veil and half withdrew the pins that fastened her hat.
“Philip,” she began in a frightened whisper, “I have—I have come to—”
The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and she rushed across the room as though she were running from herself. She was blushing violently.
“Never!” she cried, as she pulled open the door; “I could never do it—never!”
The following afternoon, when Helen was to come to tea, Carroll decided that he would receive her with all the old friendliness, but that he must be careful to subdue all emotion.
He was really deeply hurt at her treatment, and had it not been that she came on her own invitation he would not of his own accord have sought to see her. In consequence, he rather welcomed than otherwise the arrival of Marion Cavendish, who came a half-hour before Helen was expected, and who followed a hasty knock with a precipitate entrance.
“Sit down,” she commanded breathlessly; “and listen. I’ve been at rehearsal all day, or I’d have been here before you were awake.” She seated herself nervously and nodded her head at Carroll in an excited and mysterious manner.
“What is it?” he asked. “Have you and Reggie—”