Valerie looked at her incredulously:
"Do you think you would really care to know me? I, an artist's model, and you, the Countess d'Enver?"
"I was Nellie Jackson before that." She leaned across the table, smiling, with heightened colour; "I believe I'd never have to pretend with you. The minute I saw you I liked you. Will you let me talk to you?"
"Y—yes."
There was a constrained silence; Hélène d'Enver touched the water in the bowl with her finger-tips, dried them, looked up at Valerie, who rose. Under the window there was a tufted seat; and here they found places together.
"Do you know why I came?" asked Hélène d'Enver. "I was lonely."
"You!"
"My dear, I am a lonely woman; I'm lonely to desperation. I don't belong in New York and I don't belong in France, and I don't like Pittsburgh. I'm lonely! I've always been lonely ever since I left Pittsburgh. There doesn't seem to be any definite place anywhere for me. And I haven't a real woman friend in the world!"
"How in the world can you say that?" exclaimed Valerie, astonished.
The countess lighted another cigarette and wreathed her pretty face in smoke.