the morning there was no letter, she wondered why, and all day
she wondered why. And the next morning when again she was
disappointed, her thoughts of Latimer and her doubts and
speculations concerning him shut out every other interest. He
became a perplexing, insistent problem. He was never out of her
mind. And then he would spoil it all by writing her that he loved
her and that of all the women in the world she was the only one.
And, reassured upon that point, Helen happily and promptly would
forget all about him.

But when she remembered him, although months had passed since she
had seen him, she remembered him much more distinctly, much more
gratefully, than that one of the two hundred and fifty with whom
she had walked that same afternoon. Latimer could not know it,
but of that anxious multitude he was first, and there was no
second. At least Helen hoped, when she was ready to marry, she
would love Latimer enough to want to marry him. But as yet she
assured herself she did not want to marry any one. As she was,
life was very satisfactory. Everybody loved her, everybody
invited her to be of his party, or invited himself to join hers,
and the object of each seemed to be to see that she enjoyed every
hour of every day. Her nature was such that to make her happy was
not difficult. Some of her devotees could do it by giving her a
dance and letting her invite half of Boston, and her kid brother
could do it by taking her to Cambridge to watch the team at
practice.

She thought she was happy because she was free. As a matter of
fact, she was happy because she loved some one and that
particular some one loved her. Her being "free" was only her