When she had closed the black lid of her violin case, Helena stood a moment as if at a loss. Louisa looked up with eyes full of affection, like a dog that did not dare to move to her beloved. Getting no response, she drooped over the piano. At length Helena looked at her friend, then slowly closed her eyes. The burden of this excessive affection was too much for her. Smiling faintly, she said, as if she were coaxing a child:
“Play some Chopin, Louisa.”
“I shall only do that all wrong, like everything else,” said the elder plaintively. Louisa was thirty-five. She had been Helena’s friend for years.
“Play the mazurkas,” repeated Helena calmly.
Louisa rummaged among the music. Helena blew out her violin candle, and came to sit down on the side of the fire opposite to Byrne. The music began. Helena pressed her arms with her hands, musing.
“They are inflamed still!” said the young man.
She glanced up suddenly, her blue eyes, usually so heavy and tired, lighting up with a small smile.
“Yes,” she answered, and she pushed back her sleeve, revealing a fine, strong arm, which was scarlet on the outer side from shoulder to wrist, like some long, red-burned fruit. The girl laid her cheek on the smarting, soft flesh caressively.
“It is quite hot,” she smiled, again caressing her sun- scalded arm with peculiar joy.
“Funny to see a sunburn like that in mid-winter,” he replied, frowning. “I can’t think why it should last all these months. Don’t you ever put anything on to heal it?”
She smiled at him again, almost pitying, then put her mouth lovingly on the burn.
