For some five minutes she cried silently; the sparrows, unheeded, bade her good night, and flew to their nests in the trees of the Square. Then, very resolutely, as if inspired by a settled purpose, she stood up and recrossed the corridor to her bedroom.
She turned on the lamp above the dressing-table and rapidly removed the traces of her tears, contemplating in dismay a redness of her pretty nose which did not prove entirely amenable to treatment with the powder-puff. Finally, however, she switched off the light, and, going out on to the landing, descended to the door of Henry Leroux’s flat.
In reply to her ring, the maid, Ferris, opened the door. She wore her hat and coat, and beside her on the floor stood a tin trunk.
“Why, Ferris!” cried Helen—“are you leaving?”
“I am indeed, miss!” said the girl, independently.
“But why? whatever will Mr. Leroux do?”
“He’ll have to do the best he can. Cook’s goin’ too!”
“What! cook is going?”
“I am!” announced a deep, female voice.
And the cook appeared beside the maid.
“But whatever—” began Helen; then, realizing that she could achieve no good end by such an attitude: “Tell Mr. Leroux,” she instructed the maid, quietly, “that I wish to see him.”
Ferris glanced rapidly at her companion, as a man appeared on the landing, to inquire in an abysmal
