and of Franklin--both so funny, both so
earnest--appear at the farther edge of the lawn engaged in strenuous
converse. Helen looked at them too, kindly and indifferently. 'That
would be quite an appropriate attachment, wouldn't it?' she remarked.
'They seem very much interested in each other, those two.'

Althea grew very red. Her mind knew a horrid wrench. She did not know
whether it was in pride of possessorship, or shame of it, or merely in
helpless loyalty that, after a pause, she said: 'Perhaps I ought to have
told you, Helen, that Franklin has wanted to marry me for fifteen years.
I've no intention of accepting him; but no one can judge as I can of how
big and dear a person he is--in spite of his funniness.' As she spoke
she remembered--it was with a gush of undiluted dismay--that to Helen
she had in Paris spoken of the 'delightful' suitor, the 'only one.' Did
Helen remember? And how could Helen connect that delightful 'one' with
Franklin, and with her own attitude towards Franklin?

But Helen now had turned her eyes upon her, opening them--it always
seemed to be with difficulty that she did it--widely. 'My dear,' she
said, 'I do beg your pardon. You never gave me a hint.'

How, indeed, could the Paris memory have been one?

'There wasn't any hint to give, exactly,' said Althea, blushing more
deeply and trying to prevent the tears from rising. 'I'm not in the
least in love with Franklin. I never shall be.'

'No, of course not,' Helen replied, full of solicitude. 'Only, as you
say, you must know him so well;--to have him talked over, quite idly and
ignorantly, as I've been talking.--Really, you ought to have stopped
me.'

'There was no reason for stopping you. I can see Franklin with perfect
detachment. I see him just as you do, only I see so much more. His
devotion to me is a rare thing; it has always made me feel unworthy.'

'Dear me, yes. Fifteen years, you say; it's quite extraordinary,' said
Helen.

To Althea it seemed that Helen's candour was merciless, and revealed her
to herself as uncandid, crooked, and devious. It was with a stronger
wish than ever to atone to Franklin that she persisted: '_He_ is
extraordinary; that's what I mean about him. I am devoted to him. And my
consolation is that since I can't give him love he finds my friendship
the next best thing in life.'

'Really?' Helen repeated. She was silent then, evidently not considering
herself privileged to ask questions; and the silence wa