Stephen made no attempt to pierce that armor. Convinced that it was not only her wish, but her determined resolve to treat him merely as a friend of her husband’s, to whom she extended the courtesies of her position, but nothing more, he acquiesced. He even tried to help her. Finally Stephen avoided all chance for intimate conversation with Helen as delicately and adroitly as herself. Through Helen’s skillful management Cornelius Morrison never experienced a moment of the cruel suspicion that he was unwelcome in the company of these two creatures so many years younger than himself.

For over half a dozen years Stephen came and went to and from the Morrison home. He was constantly moving before Helen’s eyes—vivid and alive, but, as far as she was concerned, apparently divested of all reality.

When Cornelius Morrison died, and suddenly Helen was released from all fear of hurting him, she did not immediately alter her attitude toward Stephen Dallas. Habit was so strong—or was it respect for Cornelius that was so strong?—she contrived to maintain with Stephen for many months the same relations which she had established when her husband was alive.

Stephen had a great deal to do in settling Cornelius Morrison’s affairs. Cornelius Morrison had concluded that, of all his friends who were members of the bar, Stephen Dallas, who had known Helen as a child, could work with her to the best advantage. He named Stephen as one of his trustees. Therefore Stephen and Helen were necessarily alone together frequently.

At first Stephen treated Helen as she had indicated she wished to be treated. He was almost formal with her unless the children were present as a safeguard. It was difficult to strike a happy medium after Stephen had been alone in Helen’s presence for longer than half an hour. For he loved her! He believed he had loved her ever since that day he had met her in Central Park, and his own eagerness and joy at sight of her had so startled and surprised him. No. He believed he had loved her longer. Occasionally a look would pass between Helen and himself—a vague, indefinite look that recalled to Stephen the picture of a girl sitting by a rose-shaded lamp, and a boy opposite her toying with a little bronze which he had picked up from the table near by. Stephen believed he had loved Helen ever since that first night in Judge Dane’s drawing-room!

When for the first time Stephen pursued one of those vague illusive looks, gazed straight at Helen in the gray depths of her eyes, and by sheer mind-energy captured that will-o’-the-wisp impulse that had drifted like vapor between them, she had drawn in her breath quickly and her eyelids had flickered and closed for a moment; and color, ever so faint, ever so indefinite, had tinged her cheeks.