“You remember Maurice, of course," Anne was saying.

HELEN found herself looking up into those dear grey eyes.

“Of course,” she answered. “What ages it is, Maurice! You are home for good now?”

“Yes, for good,” he said, smiling at her. “This is a very great pleasure, Helen.”

Then Anne bore Helen upstairs, agog with excitement, and almost pushed her into the spare room.

“Helen!” she gasped. “You—you marvel. I never saw anything to equal it! My dear, you look lovely! I nearly had a fit!”

“Don’s probably having one now,” said Helen. “Did you see his face? Oh, Anne, he’s just the same as ever!”

Anne gathered that her friend was not referring to Don. She smiled.

“And did you see his face? Helen, it’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever known. You’re perfect! That hat! Your hair! Manicured nails! I can’t get over it.”

“I feel a stupid fool,” said Helen, and tossed her hat on to the bed. “And a beastly, low-down cheat!”

“You’ve even brought a maid!” went on Anne, unheeding. “Where did you get that dream of a frock? I hardly knew you! Helen, you’re made up!”

“Too much?” asked Helen anxiously.

“No, not a bit; but you couldn’t take me in. Oh, come downstairs again, my dear! This is the most thrilling thing that has happened for ages!”

There was a twinkle in Helen’s eyes.

“I’ll come as soon as I’ve changed, dearest,” she said in a mincing voice.

The maid came in. Anne met her friend’s wide blank stare, and fled.

TEA was brought to the low, panelled hall, where a fire burned in a barless grate. Slowly, and a little late, Helen came down the stairs, dressed in a tea-gown of filmy mist-blue, her hair elaborately arranged, her feet in tight shoes of silver brocade. Not her usual cheery grin curled her mouth, but a faint, controlled smile.

“Am I late?” she said. “How dreadful of me! Give me a comfy chair by the fire, Don, please. That will be delightful.”

Don swallowed hard, but his lips trembled despite himself. Maurice came to give Helen tea, and he left his own seat to sit beside her. Helen hid her shyness—and she was very shy—and turned towards him.

“Are you glad to leave India?” she inquired. “It seems to get such a hold over people.”

“It has its fascination,” he answered, his admiring eyes on her face, “but on the whole I’m glad to be home again. I’m going to try and find a house to settle down in. You’ve become very famous, Helen.”

Ordinarily she would have nodded, and laughed. Instead she made a little deprecating gesture with her hand.

“Oh! That’s very kind of you.”

“I’ve read all your books, of course. I think that Miriam is my favourite.”

She sat up at that, and for one instant the real Helen showed.

“Why do you say that? I regard the book as—” she broke off, on the very brink of hot argument. “I am so glad you liked it,” she said.