Part 57 (2/2)

”Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--” She stopped. ”Look here, I can't go on like this. I warn you I won't. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?”

”I don't hate him now,” said Helen. ”I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I'm not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It's unthinkable.”

Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither a.s.serting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends.

”Tell me about yourself,” said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering over the furniture.

”There's nothing to tell.”

”But your marriage has been happy, Meg?”

”Yes, but I don't feel inclined to talk.”

”You feel as I do.”

”Not that, but I can't.”

”No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying.”

Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived.

”Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?”

”You mean that you want to go away from me?”

”I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn't any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later.”

”Certainly, dearest.”

”For that is all we can do.”

It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen's common sense; Monica had been extraordinarily good for her.

”I am glad to have seen you and the things.” She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past.

Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: ”The car has gone, and here's your cab.”

She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, ”Please, lady, a message,” and handed her Henry's visiting-card through the bars.

”How did this come?” she asked.

Crane had returned with it almost at once.

She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night to Dolly's. ”Il faut dormir sur ce sujet.” while Helen was to be found une comfortable chambre a l'hotel. The final sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles's had only one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest.

”Henry would have done what he could,” she interpreted.

Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming.

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