ake everything from him. But
it is easy for you to talk of what is wise and strong, Helen, and to
tell me what I ought to do and feel. You have everything. You have the
man who loves you and the man you love. It is easy for you to be clear
and hard and see other people's faults. I know--I know about you and
Gerald.'

Helen turned to her. Althea had dropped her hands. She did not look at
her friend, but, with tear-disfigured eyes, out of the window; and there
was a desolate dignity in her aspect. For the first time in their
unequal intercourse they were on an equal footing. Helen was aware of
Althea, and, in a vague flash, for self-contemplation was difficult to
her, she was aware of some of the things that Althea saw: the lack of
tenderness; the lack of imagination; the indifference to all that did
not come within the circle of her own tastes and affections. It was just
as Franklin had said, and Gerald, and now Althea; her heart was hard.
And she was sorry, though she did not know what she was to do; for
though she was sorry for Althea her heart did not soften for her as it
had softened for Franklin, and for the thought of Franklin--too good for
them all, sacrificed to them all. It was the thought of the cruelty of
nature, making of Franklin, with all his wealth of love, a creature
never to be desired, that gave to her vision of life, and of all this
strange predicament in which life had involved them, an ironic colour
incompatible with the warmth of trust and tenderness which Franklin had
felt lacking in her. She was ironic, she was hard, and she must make the
best of it. But it was in a gentle voice that, looking at her friend's
melancholy head, she asked: 'Who told you that?'

'Mrs. Mallison,' said Althea. 'I've been a hypocrite to you all the
morning.'

'And I have been an odious prig to you. That ass of a Kitty Mallison. I
had not intended any one to know for months.' Even in her discomfiture
Helen retained her tact. She did not say 'we.'

'For my sake, I suppose?'

'Oh no! why for yours?' Helen was determined that Althea should be hurt
no further. If pity for Franklin had edged her voice, pity for Althea
must keep from her the blighting knowledge of Franklin's sacrifice.

'It was we who were left, wasn't it--Gerald and I? I don't want us to
appear before people's eyes at once as consolation prizes to each
other.'

Althea now turned a sombre gaze upon her. 'He couldn't be that to you,
since you've never lo