“you will condescend to give me some slight reason why I should do anything so extraordinary and undesirable?”
“Undesirable!” cried Denise. “On the contrary;…it is most…desirable! It is essential. The wretched…cross-eyed…creature has presumed to fall in love…with you.”…
“Oh!” cried Helen, flushing, and glancing rapidly at Leroux, who now was thoroughly interested, “please do not talk nonsense!”
“It is no…nonsense. It is the finger…of Providence. Do you know where you can find…him?”
“Not exactly; but I have a shrewd suspicion,” again she glanced in an embarrassed way at Leroux, “that he will know where to find me.”
“Who is this presumptuous person?” inquired the novelist, leaning forward, his dark blue eyes aglow with interest.
“Never mind,” replied Denise Ryland, “you will know…soon enough. In the meantime…as I am simply…starving, suppose we see about…lunch?”
Moved by some unaccountable impulse, Helen extended her hand to Leroux, who took it quietly in his own and held it, looking down at the slim fingers as though he derived strength and healing from their touch.
“Poor boy,” she said softly.
