“Yes,” said the American, without enthusiasm; “but then I still care, and Helen knows I care.”

“Doesn’t she ever fancy that you might care for some one else?  You have a lot of friends, you know.”

“Yes, but she knows they are just that—­friends,” said the American.

Miss Cavendish stood up to go, and arranged her veil before the mirror above the fireplace.

“I come here very often to tea,” she said.

“It’s very kind of you,” said Carroll.  He was at the open window, looking down into the street for a cab.

“Well, no one knows I am engaged to Reggie,” continued Miss Cavendish, “except you and Reggie, and he isn’t so sure. She doesn’t know it.”

“Well?” said Carroll.

Miss Cavendish smiled a mischievous, kindly smile at him from the mirror.

“Well?” she repeated, mockingly.  Carroll stared at her and laughed.  After a pause he said:  “It’s like a plot in a comedy.  But I’m afraid I’m too serious for play-acting.”

“Yes, it is serious,” said Miss Cavendish.  She seated herself again and regarded the American thoughtfully.  “You are too good a man to be treated the way that girl is treating you, and no one knows it better than she does.  She’ll change in time, but just now she thinks she wants to be independent.  She’s in love with this picture-painting idea, and with the people she meets.  It’s all new to her—­the fuss they make over her and the titles, and the way she is asked about.  We know she can’t paint.  We know they only give her commissions because she’s so young and pretty, and American.  She amuses them, that’s all.  Well, that cannot last; she’ll find it out.  She’s too clever a girl, and she is too fine a girl to be content with that long.  Then—­then she’ll come back to you.  She feels now that she has both you and the others, and she’s making you wait; so wait and be cheerful.  She’s worth waiting for; she’s young, that’s all.  She’ll see the difference in time.  But, in the meanwhile, it would hurry matters a bit if she thought she had to choose between the new friends and you.”

“She could still keep her friends and marry me,” said Carroll; “I have told her that a hundred times.  She could still paint miniatures and marry me.  But she won’t marry me.”

“She won’t marry you because she knows she can whenever she wants to,” cried Marion.  “Can’t you see that?  But if she thought you were going to marry some one else now?”

“She would be the first to congratulate me,” said Carroll.  He rose and walked to the fireplace, where he leaned with his arm on the mantel.  There was a photograph of Helen Cabot near his hand, and he turned this toward him and stood for some time staring at it.  “My dear Marion,” he said at last, “I’ve known Helen ever since she was as young as that.  Every year I’ve loved her more, and found new things in her to care for; now I love her more than any other man ever loved any other woman.”