“And, Marion,” Helen began bravely, “I also want to congratulate you on something else. You—you—neither of you have told me yet,” she stammered, “but I am such an old friend of both that I will not be kept out of the secret.” At these words Marion’s air of triumphant gayety vanished; she regarded Helen’s troubled eyes closely and kindly.
“What secret, Helen?” she asked.
“I came to the door of Philip’s room the other day when you did not know I was there,” Helen answered; “and I could not help seeing how matters were. And I do congratulate you both—and wish you—oh, such happiness!” Without a word Marion dragged her back down the passage to her dressing-room, and closed the door.
“Now tell me what you mean,” she said.
“I am sorry if I discovered anything you didn’t want known yet,” said Helen, “but the door was open. Mr. Wimpole had just left you and had not shut it, and I could not help seeing.”
Marion interrupted her with an eager exclamation of enlightenment.
“Oh, you were there, then,” she cried. “And you?” she asked eagerly—“you thought Phil cared for me—that we are engaged, and it hurt you; you are sorry? Tell me,” she demanded, “are you sorry?”
Helen drew back and stretched out her hand toward the door.
“How can you!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “You have no right.”
Marion stood between her and the door.