“Well, funny or not, I had to come. I thought of writing at first, but, gracious, if a thing is important enough to you, you’ll do it the right way—at least, the way that seems right to you—whatever anyone thinks. There are some things I had to know that nobody but you could tell me, so I decided to come right down here myself and ask them.”

“That was the right way.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And so have I—heard a lot about you.”

“From Laurel, I mean.”

“Yes, I mean from Laurel, too.”

“I suppose you know it, but Laurel thinks a lot of you.”

Helen smiled. “And I suppose you know it, but Laurel thinks a lot of you.”

“Well, I’m her mother. She has to. But she’s got what they call a sort of ‘crush’—‘mash’ we called it when I was a girl—on you. She hates to have me call it that. She won’t talk about you very much, now. Thinks I might be jealous or something, I guess. Perhaps I was a little at first, though I hardly knew it. Laurel did, though. Trust her. She’s the sort of child who knows what you feel before you do yourself almost.”

“I know. Sensitive, isn’t she—oh, so sensitive! I think a great deal of Laurel, Mrs. Dallas. You have a beautiful child, I think.”

“She is a nice kiddie,” said Stella.

For an instant the two women’s eyes met. Was that bright look tears? they both wondered.

3

STELLA WAS THE first to look away. She cleared her throat, coughed, made another attempt.

“How’s Stephen now?”

“I think he’s well.”

“I suppose you see him now and then?”

“No. The last few times Laurel has visited me, Miss Simpson has brought her, and taken her away. Stephen and I haven’t met for two years.”

“Oh, is that so?” Stella looked back at Mrs. Morrison. Gracious! What had happened? The shining look had all gone from her eyes and the light from her expression. She looked gray, ashen, and old, terribly old.

“Look here, Mrs. Morrison,” Stella went on, “I’m not going to beat about the bush any longer. I’ve been thinking a good deal lately of the advantages to me if I got things fixed up between Stephen and myself, the way he wanted them fixed up a while ago. But before I do any more thinking I want to find out how things are now between Stephen and you.”

Helen’s clasped hands tightened upon her knee, but she showed no feeling when she spoke.

“Mrs. Dallas,” she said, “I don’t want to be unkind, but self-denial, our duty to others, the toll that must be paid for mistakes, separation from each other—nothing will ever destroy that which exists, even though without form or expression, between Stephen and me.”

Stella looked puzzled.