When tea was over Anne, in some miraculously unobtrusive way, took Don away and left her guests together. Maurice drew his chair nearer, and offered Helen a cigarette. She thought it more in keeping with the part not to smoke, so she shook her head.

“Do tell me all your news!” she said prettily.

“There is nothing to tell. You have done far more than I have. But then, you always had the divine spark in you.”

Helen started to say “Rot!” and changed it to:

“You mustn’t flatter me, Maurice.”

“Impossible,” he said. “You are quite wonderful.”

“You find me changed?”

He frowned.

“Y–es. And yet I don’t know.” His eyes smiled. “You’re more elegant than the Helen I remember. And just as lovely.”

Helen flushed, and began to talk rather hurriedly about India. The time flew. Helen made Maurice talk; she abstained from contradiction, and said very little, but sat smiling and interested. The dressing gong for dinner interrupted them.

“I must fly!” said Helen. “I mustn’t be late again!”

Maurice looked at the clock.

“In the old days,” he remarked, “you used to tear upstairs three minutes before dinner and, I verily believe, dive into the first garment that met your eye!”

“Oh, but I’m older now!” she answered.

“You don’t look it.”

ANNE came into Helen’s room on her way downstairs. At a nod from her mistress the maid departed.

“Heavenly frock,” said Anne. “My dear, he’s struck!”

“Struck what?” said Helen disagreeably.

“Struck nothing. Struck with you.”

“Don’t be vulgar! If—if I could—I’d chuck this horrid sham!”

“Yes, but you can’t, my dear. And it’s just perfect. This room reeks of smoke.”

“Rather stinks of it,” Helen agreed. “I must smoke somewhere, though. Oh, that’s the gong! I wish I’d never come!”

There was no doubt about it—Maurice was attracted. During the days that followed he looked on her with mingled awe and admiration; and sometimes Helen thought that she could see a puzzled gleam in his eyes. He treated her as though she were made of sugar, which irked her exceedingly. They went for sedate little walks on tarred roads, and if a spot of rain fell, Maurice, absurdly anxious, hurried Helen homewards. He seemed always to expect her to be tired, and several times she almost let her mask fall, because she wanted so much to tell him not to be a fool. He drove her out in her car sometimes, and that was not all joy for Helen. She yearned to say: “Look here, old thing, I love you, you’re the dearest person in the world, but you don’t know a thing about cars.” But it was quite impossible to say anything of the sort, especially as she was not at all sure that Maurice still loved her. Her love for him choked her; for once, in her independent life, she hungered to feel his arms about her, and his kisses on her mouth. It did not happen. Maurice was tender, and solicitous, and admiring, but he seemed to hold himself aloof, watching her. Once he said: