Helga nodded. “Yes, I expect to. And I know about Anne. One night—” She stopped, for across the room she saw, with a stab of surprise, James Vayle. “Where, Helen did you get him?”

“Oh, that? That’s something the cat brought in. Don’t ask which one. He came with somebody, I don’t remember who. I think he’s shocked to death. Isn’t he lovely? The dear baby. I was going to introduce him to Audrey and tell her to do a good job of vamping on him1 as soon as I could remember the darling’s name, or when it got noisy enough so he wouldn’t hear what I called him. But you’ll do just as well. Don’t tell me you know him!” Helga made a little nod. “Well! And I suppose you met him at some shockingly wicked place in Europe. That’s always the way with those innocent-looking men.”

“Not quite. I met him ages ago in Naxos. We were engaged to be married. Nice, isn’t he? His name’s Vayle. James Vayle.”

“Nice,” said Helen throwing out her hands in a characteristic dramatic gesture—she had beautiful hands and arms—“is exactly the word. Mind if I run off? I’ve got somebody here who’s going to sing. Not spirituals. And I haven’t the faintest notion where he’s got to. The cellar, I’ll bet.”

James Vayle hadn’t, Helga decided, changed at all. Someone claimed her for a dance and it was some time before she caught his eyes, half questioning, upon her. When she did, she smiled in a friendly way over her partner’s shoulder and was rewarded by a dignified little bow. Inwardly she grinned, flattered. He hadn’t forgotten. He was still hurt. The dance over, she deserted her partner and deliberately made her way across the room to James Vayle. He was for the moment embarrassed and uncertain. Helga Crane, however, took care of that, thinking meanwhile that Helen was right. Here he did seem frightfully young and delightfully unsophisticated. He must be, though, every bit of thirty-two or more.

“They say,” was her bantering greeting, “that if one stands on the corner of One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street and Seventh Avenue2 long enough, one will eventually see all the people one has ever known or met. It’s pretty true, I guess. Not literally of course.” He was, she saw, getting himself together. “It’s only another way of saying that everybody, almost, some time sooner or later comes to Harlem, even you.”

He laughed. “Yes, I guess that is true enough. I didn’t come to stay, though.” And then he was grave, his earnest eyes searchingly upon her.

“Well, anyway, you’re here now, so let’s find a quiet corner if that’s possible, where we can talk. I want to hear all about you.”