She flung herself again on Marise, holding her closely, "Help me!" she begged, "help me buy what I want."
Marise was touched by the loneliness which underlay the other girl's appeal. She knew what it was to be lonely! It was the first time that any one had broken through into her loneliness as this quivering, passionate, unhappy little thing had done; the first time anybody had asked her for help. From the very first word of their talk, the light chaffing manner which was her usual shield had been torn into shreds by the other girl's driving directness. She looked deep into the other's eyes, fixed breathlessly on her, and said seriously, "Yes, Eugénie, I'll help you … all I can."
"There!" said the other, "that's a specimen. My name's not Eugénie. It's Eugenia. Isn't that turrible?"
Marise did not follow this at all. "It's just the same thing, only in English, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it's horrid and common in English, and it's lovely in French. Why can't I have it Eugenie?" She looked up keenly and searchingly into Marise's face, and at what she caught there, she contradicted herself hastily, before Marise could open her lips.
"No, no, I see. It would be silly to change it—to pretend. I'd better make the best of it. There! There's one fool mistake you kept me from making, you see!"
Marise felt that the talk was on a plane different from hers, so that she did not get its meaning, although the words were clear enough. What was all that about Eugenia and Eugénie? She hadn't caught the point of that, at all.
Being only eighteen, she found her bewilderment rather comic, and began to laugh. "I still don't see that Eugenia isn't just as good as Eugénie!" she said, "I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Eugenia, but if 'you do, it's all right."
"Oh, I do," said the other with conviction.
Marise was relieved to see that her small, pretty face, although still flushed from her fit of tears no longer looked distraught.
"How strange!" thought Marise. They had never spoken
