nearly so happy as she had been in New York, even in lean periods when she and the Doc had been pressed for money. But, anyway, then they had been together, and fought, and laughed, and loved, and quarrelled through flush times and bad.
Maybe that was it! The Doc! Of course, she loved him—she had loved him ever since she had known him. There was no secret about that—she loved him fiercely, passionately, more than she loved anything else in the world, with all the love she was capable of—more than he loved her—he seemed to accept her, too often, so casually, so indifferently, so much as a matter of course. He was so confidently and complacently sure of her—and she was not at all sure of him. She was only sure that he was quite right in being sure—she couldn't help loving him if she tried.
She had hardly seen anything of him since that night in the Roost before he had left for Needley —and he hadn't seemed to care much whether she did or not. That talk about playing the game and taking no chances was all bosh—there had been plenty of chances where it wouldn't have hurt the game any. Perhaps the little jolt she had given him last night, turning the tables a little, would wake him up a bit. Perhaps, as the Flopper had said, he would come out to-night, and—
"Helena! Helena!"
Helena sat suddenly upright—the noise of the surf muffled the sound of the voice, but that was
