would permit…his wife…to gad about in…Paris with another…girl” (she presumably referred to herself) whom he had only met…casually…and did not like”…
“What! do you mean that Mr. Leroux doesn’t like you? I can’t believe that!”
“Then the sooner…you believe it…the better.”
“It can only be that he does not know you, properly?”
“He has no wish…to know me…properly; and I have no desire…to cultivate…the…friendship of such…a silly being.”
Helen Cumberly was conscious that a flush was rising from her face to her brow, and tingling in the very roots of her hair. She was indignant with herself and turned aside, bending over her table in order to conceal this ill-timed embarrassment from her visitor.
“Poor Mr. Leroux!” she said, speaking very rapidly; “I think it awfully good of him, and sporty, to allow his wife so much liberty.”
“Sporty!” said Miss Ryland, head wagging and nostrils distended in scorn. “Idi-otic…I should call it.”
“Why?”
Helen Cumberly, perfectly composed again, raised her clear eyes to her visitor.
“You seem so…thoroughly sensible, except in regard to…Harry Leroux;—and all women,
