he cared for Helen Carey. Besides, while he
knew how he loved her, he had no knowledge whatsoever that she loved
him. She always seemed extremely glad to see him; but that might be
explained in different ways. It might be that what was in her heart for
him was really a sort of "old home week" feeling; that to her it was a
relief to see any one who spoke her own language, who did not need to
have it explained when she was jesting, and who did not think when she
was speaking in perfectly satisfactory phrases that she must be talking
slang.

The Ambassador and his wife had been very kind to Endicott, and, as a
friend of Helen's, had asked him often to dinner and had sent him cards
for dances at which Helen was to be one of the belles and beauties. And
Helen herself had been most kind, and had taken early morning walks with
him in Hyde Park and through the National Galleries; and they had fed
buns to the bears in the Zoo, and in doing so had laughed heartily. They
thought it was because the bears were so ridiculous that they laughed.
Later they appreciated that the reason they were happy was because
they were together. Had the bear pit been empty, they still would have
laughed.

On the evening of the thirty-first of May, Endicott had gone to bed with
his ticket purchased for America and his last five-pound note to last
him until the boat sailed. He was a miserable young man. He knew now
that he loved Helen Carey in such a way that to put the ocean between
them was liable to unseat his courage and his self-control. In London
he could, each night, walk through Carlton House Terrace and, leaning
against the iron rails of the Carlton Club, gaze up at her window.
But, once on the other side of the ocean, that tender exercise must
be abandoned. He must even consider her pursued by most attractive
guardsmen, diplomats, and belted earls. He knew they could not love her
as he did; he knew they could not love her for the reasons he loved her,
because the fine and beautiful things in her that he saw and worshipped
they did not seek, and so did not find. And yet, for lack of a few
thousand dollars, he must remain silent, must put from him the best that
ever came into his life, must waste the wonderful devotion he longed
to give, must starve the love that he could never summon for any other
woman.

On the thirty-first of May he went to sleep utterly and completely
miserable. On the first of June he woke hopeless and unrefreshed.