hers. Then, as some half knowledge grew to certainty, the light of her
beauty became a glory; she seemed transfigured by a mighty joy such as no
other woman could ever have felt.

An instant she stood motionless, the sunshine of her eyes still on me.
Then, drawing a long breath, she turned away, pulling the pins out of her
feathered hat with hands that trembled.

I watched the process with the strained attention one gives at crucial
moments to nothings. I laughed out of sheer inanity; every pulse in my
body was throbbing. She lifted the hat from her shining head. She put it
down. She unfastened her coat. In a minute she would turn again, and I
should once more see that face imbued with light and fire. I waited for
her voice.

"I'm sure of it!" she cried, wheeling about of a sudden, with a laugh like
caressing music, and confronting me again. "You didn't know me, John; did
you?"

"Why didn't I know you?" I gasped. "Why are you glad I don't know you?
What does it all mean, Helen?"

Instead of answering she laughed again. It was the happiest joy-song in
the world. A mirthful goddess might have trilled it--a laugh like sunshine
and flowers and chasing cloud shadows on waving grass.

"Helen Winship, stop it! Stop this masquerade!" I shouted, not knowing
what I did.

"But I--I'm afraid I can't, John."