Anne spoke more softly still.

“Helen, you needn’t pretend with me.”

A hot flush arose.

“Never have.”

“Yes, you have. You’ve never told me how you feel about it.”

Helen answered with some difficulty.

“It’s never easy to admit you were a fool.”

“Ah!” Anne straightened in her chair. “I guessed it. You’ve always been sorry you didn’t marry him?”

“Yes.”

Anne went to her, and put her arm around her shoulders.

“It’s not too late, old girl.”

Helen laughed shortly.

“Much too late. I haven’t even seen him—since—since I sent him away. And I was twenty-five then. Don’t suppose he ever thinks of me.”

“He isn’t married, dear. And he says in his letter that he wants more than anything to see you. He wouldn’t say that—being Maurice—unless he still cared.”

“Bosh!” said Helen inelegantly. “Probably he’s got a sentimental feeling about me. That won’t last when he sees me.”

“Helen, without any more nonsense, if Maurice still cared would you marry him now?”

“Yes!” said Helen fiercely.

“Very well,” replied Anne, in a business-like manner. “It’s up to you, then. And I’m determined you shan’t let this last chance slip. You’ll come to stay with me just as we’d arranged before I heard that Maurice was coming.”

“I won’t.”

Anne opened wide her eyes.

“Dear me, why not? Are you afraid of the man? After all these years I really can’t see that you need be shy of meeting him.”

This had the desired effect.

“Shy!” snorted Helen.

“That’s settled, then. You’ll come. And Helen, don’t—don’t frighten him! I know what you are. Men don’t like a woman to be as brilliant you are. And, oh darling, do, do be more feminine! Don’t shock him!”

“Anne, if you think I’m going to try and—and catch—Maurice—”

“You’ll be a fool if you don’t,” said Anne serenely. “And considering your views—”

“Damn my views!” said Helen. She turned, and her whimsical, dancing smile dawned. “It’s all rot, Anne. I’m getting old, and if he’d wanted me he’d have come before now.”

“I don’t see it,” Anne replied. “You sent him away pretty decisively in the first place, and he wasn’t the sort of man to hang on after that. And when he was on leave the first time you were lecturing in America. And the next time, my dear, you were engaged to Rupert Arden.”

At that Helen winced.

“What did you do it for, darling?”

“I don't know. It was madness. I was lonely. I admired his genius. We—we had things in common. Heavens, what a fool I was!”

“And now,” Anne said briskly, “you’re sane and unattached, and we shall see what we shall see.”

WHEN Anne Dering had gone, Helen went to the glass and carefully studied her reflection. She saw humorous grey eyes, a face that was lined a little, and innocent of powder, brown hair that was unwaved, screwed into a careless, untidy knot, with ends that escaped from it and straggled over her ears and brow. She saw, too, her neck grown thin and her tall body clothed in a shapeless green garment unworthy of the name frock. All about her, in this expensive flat, was beauty; only she was ugly there and incongruous.