speak of her sometimes, I believe, to mother--of course she never said a
word--but never, never, to anyone else. It's quite clear that he wants to
forget it altogether. Well, you don't want to forget what made you happy.
And he says such bitter things often. Oh, I'm sure it was a tragedy!"

"Well--why doesn't he marry again?" Geoffrey had turned over on his
elbows, and seemed to be examining the performances of an ant who was
trying to carry off a dead fly four times his size.

Helena did not answer immediately, and Geoffrey, looking up from the ant,
was aware of conflicting expressions passing across her face. At last she
said, drawing a deep breath:

"Well, at least, I'm glad he's come to like this dear old place--He never
used to care about it in the least."

"That's because you've made it so bright for him," said Geoffrey, finding
a seat on a tree-stump near her, and fumbling for a cigarette. The
praises of Philip were becoming monotonous and a reckless wish to test
his own fate was taking possession of him.

"I haven't!"--said Helena vehemently. "I have asked all sorts of people
down he didn't like--and I've made him live in one perpetual racket. I've
been an odious little beast. But now--perhaps--I shall know better what
he wants."

"Excellent sentiments!" A scoffer looked down upon her through curling
rings of smoke. "Shall I tell you what Philip wants?"

"What?"