sapproved of more than of drifting; therefore he was startled when
Miss Buchanan's remarks brought him to this realisation. 'Well, upon my
word, Miss Buchanan,' he said, 'I hadn't thought about it. No--of course
not--of course, I've not given up the idea of going back. I shall go
back before very long. But things have turned up, you see. There is
Althea's wedding--I must be at that--and there's Miss Helen. I want to
see as much of her as I can before I go home, get my friendship firmly
established, you know.'

Miss Buchanan now poured out the tea and handed Franklin his cup. 'I
shouldn't think about going yet, then,' she observed. 'London is an
admirable place for the sort of work you are interested in, and I
entirely sympathise with your wish to see as much as you can of Helen.'
She added, after a little pause in which Franklin, still further
startled to self-contemplation, wondered whether it was work, Althea's
wedding, or Helen who had most kept him in London,--'I'm troubled about
Helen; she's not looking at all well; hasn't been feeling well all the
summer. I trace it to that attack of influenza she had in Paris when she
met Miss Jakes.'

Franklin's thoughts were turned from himself. He looked grave. 'I'm
afraid she's delicate,' he said.

'There is nothing sickly about her, but she is fragile,' said Miss
Buchanan. 'She can't stand wear and tear. It might kill her.'

Franklin looked even graver. The thought of his friend killed by wear
and tear was inexpressibly painful to him. He remembered--he would
never forget--the day in the woods, Helen's 'I'm sick to death of it.'
That Helen had a secret sorrow, and that it was preying upon her, he
felt sure, and there was pride for him in the thought that he could help
her there; he could help her to hide it; even her aunt didn't know that
she was sick to death of it. 'What do you suggest might be done?' he now
inquired. 'Do you think she goes out too much? Perhaps a rest-cure.'

'No; I don't think she over-tires herself; she doesn't go out nearly as
much as she used to. There is nothing to cure and nothing to rest from.
It isn't so much now; I'm here now to make things possible for her. It's
after I'm gone. I'm an old woman; I'm devoted to my niece, and I don't
see what's to become of her when I'm dead.'

If Franklin had been startled before, he was shocked now. He had never
given much thought to the economic basis of Helen's life, taking it for
granted that though she