"You dear!" whispered Valerie, holding tightly to Hélène's hands.
"Isn't it dreadful?" murmured Hélène, turning her blue eyes on the man who never would grow old enough to grow up. "I had no such intention, I can assure you; and I don't even understand myself yet."
"Don't you?" said Valerie, laughing tenderly;—"then you are like all other women. What is the use of our ever trying to understand ourselves?"
Hélène laughed, too:
"No use, dear. Leave it to men who say they understand us. It's a mercy somebody does."
"Isn't it," nodded Valerie; and they kissed each other, laughing.
"My goodness, it's like the embrace of the two augurs!" said Ogilvy. "They're laughing at us, Kelly!—at you, and me and Harry!—and at man in general!—innocent man!—so charmingly and guilelessly symbolised by us! Stop it, Hélène! You make me shiver. You'll frighten Annan so that he'll never marry if you and Valerie laugh that way at each other."
"I wonder," said Hélène, quieting him with a fair hand laid lightly on his sleeve, "whether you all would remain and dine with me this evening—just as you are I mean;—and I won't dress—"
"I insist proh pudeur," muttered Sam. "I can't countenance any such saturnalia—"
"Oh, Sam, do be quiet, dear—" She caught herself up with a blush, and everybody smiled.