“Well, upon my soul!” gasped that much-habituated young woman of the world, surprised for a brief instant out of her poise. Quickly recovering, she added: “A fortunate fate for Helga, surely. Except for you, she and Mr. Haynes must have been drowned.”
“You knew her before, didn’t you?”
“Yes; we visit at the same house in Philadelphia, and father and I have been coming down here for several years. I know her well. If I were a man, I should go the world over for Helga Johnston.”
“She and Haynes are engaged, are they not?”
“No, not engaged,” said the girl. “She is everything in the world to Mr. Haynes; but she isn’t in love with him. He has never tried to make her. There is some reason; I don’t know what. Sometimes I think he doesn’t care for her in that way either. Or perhaps he doesn’t realise it.”
“Surely she seems fond of him.”
“She is devoted to him. Why shouldn’t she be? He has done everything for her.”
“How happens that?”
“It’s the kind of story that makes you love your kind,” said the girl dreamily. “When Mr. Haynes first came here he was a young reporter with a small income, and Helga was a child of twelve with an eager mind and the promise of a lovely voice. He gave her books and got the Johnstons to send her to a good school. Then as she grew up and he came to be ‘star man’ (I think they call it) on his paper, he went to the Johnstons, who had come to know him well, and asked them to let him send Helga to preparatory school and then to college. It was agreed that she was not to know of the money that he put in their hands, and she never would have known except for something that happened in her freshman year. She held her tongue to save a classmate. They were going to expel her, when Mr. Haynes got wind of it, took the first train, ferreted out the truth, and went to the president.
“‘Here are the facts,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave them for you to act on, or I’ll take them with me for publication, as you decide.’