“It comes out every evening like this,” she said softly, with curious joy.
“And that was August, and now it’s February!” he exclaimed. “It must be psychological, you know. You make it come—the smart; you invoke it.”
She looked up at him, suddenly cold.
“I! I never think of it,” she answered briefly, with a kind of sneer.
The young man’s blood ran back from her at her acid tone. But the mortification was physical only. Smiling quickly, gently—
“Never?” he re-echoed.
There was silence between them for some moments, whilst Louisa continued to play the piano for their benefit. At last:
“Drat it!” she exclaimed, flouncing round on the piano-stool.
The two looked up at her.
“Ye did run well—what hath hindered you?” laughed Byrne.
“You!” cried Louisa. “Oh, I can’t play any more,” she added, dropping her arms along her skirt pathetically. Helena laughed quickly.
“Oh, I can’t, Helen!” pleaded Louisa.
“My dear,” said Helena, laughing briefly, “you are really under no obligation whatever.”
With the little groan of one who yields to a desire contrary to her self-respect, Louisa dropped at the feet of Helena, laid her arm and her head languishingly on the knee of her friend. The latter gave no sign, but continued to gaze in the fire. Byrne, on the other side of the hearth, sprawled in his chair, smoking a reflective cigarette.
The room was very quiet, silent even of the tick
