The truth was that Helen, with the same unerring instinct that later guided her in recognizing kinships between objects of art, was aware of something of the sort between Stephen and herself on her first evening alone with him, and it was exciting. It wasn’t only that they were both young, with traditions that were not dissimilar, and tastes and ideals that were not antagonistic. For such was the case between Helen and many of the young men she had met. It was something deeper, more vital. Why, even when this Stephen disagreed with her, now and again, as he had that first evening, she had experienced as sharp, as glowing a sense of pleasure, as certain sharp contrasts in color gave her. No. It wasn’t that Stephen was like her, any more like her than a cup is like a saucer (but one without the other is incomplete—broken) or the tallow candle like the silver stick to hold it (but one is the perfect complement of the other, even though made of such different stuff).

Stephen also had been awake a good many hours of the night after his first call on Helen. He wouldn’t have been, probably, if he had been in his own bed at home, instead of on the train speeding East. (Stephen was less given to contemplation than Helen.) But every time a stop, or jolt, or sudden application of brakes shook him awake, he was conscious of Helen Dane. By George, she’s a pretty girl . . . I’ll write to her tomorrow . . . I’ll order her some flowers as soon as I reach Boston . . . I’m going to see something more of that girl. She has beautiful eyes—and a brain too . . . I don’t know when I’ve met such a girl . . . I wonder if she’ll want to settle down in Reddington.

The world took on a new interest and significance for Helen after that. The sound of the mailman whistle would often make her heart jump up in the region of her throat. The sight of a certain-shape envelope on the hall table, sometimes bearing two and three stamps in its corner, would fill her with such a choking wave of emotion that she couldn’t answer questions coherently until she had closed herself in her room and had devoured the letter contents. And why not? Wasn’t it written by the man she was going to marry (though he might not yet be aware of it), and didn’t it discuss thrilling things about religion and philosophy, and art and music, and all sorts of foundation-stones of a life together?