Aloud she said cheerfully:
"Steve, dear, I really think I'm clever enough to have taken the measure of your very delightful brother. And I honestly don't believe it is in him to play fast and loose with any woman ever born."
"He is doing it!"
"With whom?"
"That—Dancing girl——"
"Nonsense! If it's an ephemeral romance, which I don't believe, it's a gay and harmless one. Don't worry your pretty head about it, Steve."
After Stephanie was in bed she kissed her lightly, smiled reassuringly, switched off the light and went to her own room, slowly.
Very gravely she braided her hair before the mirror, looking at her pale, reflected face.
Yet, though pale, it was still a fresh, wholesome, beautiful face. But the brown eyes stared sadly at their twin brown images, and the girl shook her head.
For the nearest that Helen Davis had ever come to falling in love was when Cleland first walked into her studio. She could have fallen in love with him then—within the minute—out of a clear sky. She realized it after he had gone—not too deeply astonished—she, who had never before been in love, recognized its possibility all in a moment.