“Helen,” said I when we rose from the dinner-table, “do not go into the parlor now.  Come into my room a little while, please.—­Well, Helen,” I resumed when we were seated by the pleasant window, “I have seen so little of you for a week past that you must have a great deal to tell me.”

“I do not know,” she replied.  “I have been out every day with the Glenns, just as you arranged for me, and I have been in the parlor in the evenings, and sometimes I sang, and one night there was a French gentleman—­”

“How about the young count?  The Italian says he is very much in love with you.  Do you know it?”

“He has told me so often enough, if that is knowing it,” with a quick, impatient toss of the small, graceful head.

“Oh, Helen!” I cried in real distress, “and what did you say to him?”

“Why, what could I say in that great parlor, with everybody looking on?  I just hushed him up as well as I could.  There is the tall English girl and that sharp-eyed Miss Donaldson, who are watching us the whole time.  It is real mean in them,” excitedly.  “And the count doesn’t mind letting everybody know how much he admires me.  In fact, he is proud of it, like one of the old knights, who used to wear their ladies’ favors as openly and proudly as they bore their knightly banners.”

“This will never do, Helen.  Don’t you see that this boy is not like the gay Frenchman that you danced with last winter?  Rene Vergniaud was a man of the world:  he could take care of himself.  But this beautiful boy, with his intensity of feeling, his ideal passionate love—­You must not play with him,” I exclaimed vehemently.

“I am not playing with him:  I never do anything to make him like me.  He comes and talks to me, and I just make myself as agreeable to him as I can, that is all.”

That is all, is it, you little mischief? thought I. As if that were not the very refinement of coquetry!  But I prudently refrained from saying it, for a tempest of hot tears began to fall, and she sobbed, “Oh, Madame Fleming, I did not think I was going to forfeit your good opinion.  What can I do?  I can’t help his liking me.  I like him too, and that makes me feel so badly.”

“Do you like him better than Mr. Denham?”

“Better than Fred?” in a tone of surprise.  “Why no, of course not:  I have known Fred always.”

“The best thing will be to tell him of Mr. Denham.”

“Oh no, I never can.”

“I will, then.”

“Don’t, I beseech you.  We shall go away soon, and that will be the end of it.  Promise me you will not.  I would rather tell him myself if I ever have a chance.”

I looked in to see my invalid friend, and then descended to the parlor, where I found the young count almost alone.  He looked up eagerly as I entered:  “I thought Miss St. Clair was with you.  I have been waiting for her all the evening.”

“Indeed!”