"You are absurd," said she. "You must not begin it all again. We
settled it once."
"We settled it twenty times, or to be exact, thirteen times, Helena.
The only trouble is, it would not stay settled. Tell me, is there any
one else yet, Helena?"
"It is not any question for you to ask, or for me to answer." She was
cold at once. "I've not tried to hear of you or your plans, and I
suppose the same is true of you. It is long since I have had a
heartache over you--a headache is all you can give me now, or ever
could. That is why I can not in the least understand why you are here
now. Auntie is almost crazy, she is so frightened. She thinks you are
entirely crazy, and believes you have murdered Mr. Davidson."
"I have not yet done so, although it is true I am wearing his shoes;
or at least his waistcoat. How do you like it?"
"I like the one with pink stripes better," she replied demurely.
"So then--so then!" I began; but choked in anger at her familiarity
with Cal Davidson's waistcoats. And my anger grew when I saw her
smile.
"Tell me, are you engaged to him, Helena?" I demanded. "But I can see;
you are." She drew herself up as she stood, her hands behind her back.
"A fine question to ask, isn't it? Especially in view of what we both
know."
"But you haven't told me."
"And am not going to."
"Why not?"
"Because it is the right of a middle-aged woman like myself----"
"--Twenty-four," said I.
"--To do as she likes in such matters. And she doesn't need make any
confidences with a man she hasn't seen for years. And for whom she
never--she never----"
"Helena," said I, and I felt pale, whether or not I looked it, "be
careful. That hurts."
"Oh, is it so?" she blazed. "I am glad if it does hurt."
I bowed to her. "I am glad if it gives you pleasure to see me hurt. I
am. Habeo!"
"But it was not so as to me," I added presently. "Yes, I said good-by
to you, that last time, and I meant it. I had tried for years, I
believe, with every argument in my power, to explain to you that I
loved you, to explain that in every human likelihood we would make a
good match of it, that we--we--well, that we'd hit it off fine
together, very likely. And then, I was well enough off--at first, at
least----"
"Oh, don't!" she protested. "It is like opening a grave. We buried it
all, Harry. It's over. Can't you spare a girl, a middle-aged girl of
twenty-four, this resurrection? We ended it. Why, Harry, we have to
make out some sort of life for ourselves, don't we? We can't just sit
down and--and----"