“H’m!”
Mrs. Verden looked keenly at her daughter. She recognized the peculiar sulky, childish look she knew so well, therefore, making an effort, she forbore to question.
“You look well,” she said.
Helena smiled ironically.
“And are you ready for your supper?” she asked, in the playful, affectionate manner she had assumed.
“If the supper is ready I will have it,” replied her daughter.
“Well, it’s not ready.” The mother shut tight her sunken mouth, and regarded her daughter with playful challenge. “Because,” she continued, “I didn’t know when you were coming.” She gave a jerk with her arm, like an orator who utters the incontrovertible. “But,” she added, after a tedious dramatic pause, “I can soon have it ready. What will you have?”
“The full list of your capacious larder,” replied Helena.
Mrs. Verden looked at her again, and hesitated “Will you have cocoa or lemonade?” she asked, coming to the point curtly.
“Lemonade,” said Helena.
Presently Mr. Verden entered a small, white-bearded man with a gentle voice.
“Oh, so you are back, Nellie!” he said, in his quiet, reserved manner.
“As you see, Pater,” she answered.
“H’m!” he murmured, and he moved about at his accounts.
Neither of her parents dared to question Helena. They moved about her on tiptoe, stealthily. Yet
