Again I would have caught her in my arms; but she moved uneasily.

"Wait--I--you haven't told me," she stammered; "I--I want to talk to you,
John."

She put out a hand as if to fend me off, then let it fall. A sudden heart
sickness came upon me. It was not her words, not the movement that chilled
me, but the paling of the wonderful light of her face, the look that crept
over it, as if I had startled a nymph to flight. I was angry with my
clumsy self that I should have caused that look, and yet--from my own
Helen, not this lovely, poising creature that hardly seemed to touch the
earth--I should have had a different greeting!

I gazed at her from where I stood, then I turned to the window. The rattle
of street cars came up from below. A child was sitting on the bench where
I had sat and feasted my eyes upon the flutter of Helen's curtains. My
numb brain vaguely speculated whether that child could see me. The sun had
gone, the square was wintry.

After a long minute Helen followed me.

"John," she said, "I am so glad to see you; but I--I want to tell you.
Everything here is so new, I--I don't--"

It must all be true; I remember her exact words. They came slowly,
hesitated, stopped.

"Are you--what do you mean, Helen?"

"Let me tell you; let me think. Don't--please don't be angry."