For Palla somehow understood that Jim had never spoken of her to his mother; and yet that his mother had heard of her friendship with her son.
And Helen knew that Palla was quietly aware of this, and that the girl’s equanimity remained undisturbed.
Only people quite sure of themselves preserved serenity under the merciless exploration of the invisible feminine antennæ. And it was evident that the girl in black had nothing to conceal from her in regard to her only son––whatever that same son might think he ought to make an effort to conceal from his mother.
To herself Helen thought: “Jim has had his wings singed, and has fled the candle.”
To Palla she said: “Mrs. Vance tells me such interesting stories of your experiences in Russia. Really, it’s like a charming romance––your friendship for the poor little Grand Duchess.”
“A tragic one,” said Palla in a voice so even that Helen presently lifted her eyes from her sewing to read in her expression something more than the mere words that this young girl had uttered. And saw a still, pale face, sensitive and very lovely; and the needle flying over a bandage no whiter than the hand that held it.
“It was a great shock to you––her death,” said Helen.
“Yes.”
“And––you were there at the time! How dreadful!”