Helen looked wonderfully sweet to-day and an atmosphere of quiet calm seemed to pervade the room. It seemed to Morgan as if he had entered into a haven. Helen wore a simple grey gown that went well with her subdued demeanour. The sanity and soundness that underlay her occasional frolicsomeness and high spirits became in that moment accentuated for him; and the almost superstitious feeling he had experienced at seeing her at the theatre now returned to him, the feeling that she was possessed of some magic power to redeem him.

“I have been too shame-faced to come before,” he began. “I knew I did not deserve to see you again.”

“Don’t, please,” said Helen. “If you make speeches of that kind you will force me to be flippant, quite against my sense of the fitness of things at this moment. Not that I want to be too tragic, but my state of mind is rather a complex one. What’s yours?”

“Mine is a very simple one. I am just conscious of mere existence and of a heavy weight on my head.”

“I don’t like your symptoms, Morgan. If I diagnose correctly, they mean nascent ‘desperation.’ Now, so long as I am in the world, you ought never to develop that disease.”

“But I omitted one important factor of my state of mind,” he confessed; “and that is the knowledge that you are in the world.”

“And does it take your attention off the weight of the load just a little?”

“It is the one pleasant fact I have to dwell upon. But please talk a little about yourself. It will do me good.”

She, however, had little to tell him. His letter had dealt her a heavy blow. His silence about the details of his sudden action had made her the prey of her imagination, which had created frightful possibilities. Her favourite theory had been an indiscretion committed by him in some moment of depression and a remorse that had resulted in a marriage with some vile person. But she had been somewhat reassured at seeing him go into the theatre one day in company with Cleo. That had been a pure accident, of course, but it had enabled her to divine a good deal. Cleo’s appearance she had taken particular notice of her face had at least narrowed that vast dreadfulness which had till then tortured her. But it was a face that by no means pleased her.

“However,” continued Helen, “it seems I’ve been talking about you instead of about myself. I have been living, I suppose, in the usual conventional routine. My conduct has been really most exemplary and the austerest chaperon would have patted me on the head approvingly. Oh, no, I forget. There’s one little matter over which I should have got lectured and that is my rejection of so eligible a bachelor as Mr. Ingram, on the mere ground that I couldn’t overlook his past life. Anyhow, he hasn’t committed suicide, though I fancy he has done something worse.”

“You mean he has followed my example?” suggested Morgan.

“Not anything as bad as that. You know I’m only the daughter of a country gentleman and the widow of a baronet. Well, he has consoled himself by marrying the genuine brand of aristocracy, though she’s a divorcee. Her income’s double mine; her intelligence one-tenth of mine.”

“She must be a very brilliant woman, indeed.”

“You have developed courtly qualities, I perceive. But I am quite ready to concede, on re-consideration, that her intellect is only the hundredth part of mine. You know I am frightfully conceited about my brains. But now tell me how everything came to happen? Where did you meet her?”

He recollected that Ingram was implicated in the recital and could not be kept out. But he was in a mood when he could no longer keep back anything. He hungered for every crumb of sympathy he could get, and, besides, he looked upon things now with such changed eyes that such reservations relating to his personal life as he had before set up seemed futile and meaningless. Very soon Helen had learned how his connection with Ingram had begun and developed, by what strange chance the letter he had written to him had spun the first thread of the web in which he was now floundering, and how he had sought to lose himself in the apparent dreamland before him. Helen’s eyes were fixed on him as her quick brain seized on every point. The narration came to her as a complete revelation.

“And if I hadn’t insisted on your dining that evening,” she cried, “you would never have got into this purgatory of a dreamland.”

“I think I should have got there all the same,” he answered, smiling, conscious of how much good it was doing him to talk to his dear friend again. “I must have met Ingram sooner or later and then the same thing would have happened.”

“Ingram is a blackguard!” said Helen severely. “With all his thick-headed cleverness, he had yet insight enough to know that you would be taken with that creature. Probably he knew already how your letter had impressed her and that she was curious about you. And so he reckoned to play on your temperament, hoping that might prove an easy method of ending his connection with her. Why, he must have jumped at the idea of taking you to her.”

Morgan was rather apologetic on Ingram’s behalf, pleading that he must have yielded to the sudden temptation and was not really such a Machiavellian fellow.

“There have been times when, I feel sure, he spoke to me from his heart. But I do not feel revengeful against him, so let him be dead and buried, so far as we are concerned.”

“With all my heart,” said Helen. “But I confess,” she went on laughingly, “it annoys me to think you saw more of the game than I that evening. That is a fact that wounds my vanity. And now about this theatre business. You must be in a terrible plight. Was there ever such a man as you, Morgan, for getting into scrapes?”

“When a man is born into the wrong world ” he began.

“He must be a very interesting sort of person to know,” concluded Helen.

When Morgan went on to relate the history of the enterprise he seemed to get a saner adjustment of his mental focus. In the telling he had sight of the whole business as a lamentable, real piece of his personal life, even perceiving as he described the stormy incidents of that morning more dramatic than anything in “The Basha’s Favourite” that it had not been without its humorous elements. He understood quite well, of course, that unless Cleo now found the requisite money, she would be hopelessly bankrupt.

“And so she’s confident of finding it,” observed Helen.

“I am quite in the dark,” said Morgan.

“Perhaps she intends opening the theatre again.”

“Heaven forbid!”

“You don’t expect she’d take any notice of the prohibition! Now Morgan, dear, I think you’ve treated her handsomely and she has cause to be grateful to you. You offered her the incense of a profound faith in her genius and a profound admiration of her person. Not content with that, she needs must have the same incense compounded of the same two essentials, observe you from the world at large. For this purpose you made her a nice little money present and enabled her to realise her dreams of a theatre. You gave her the greatest joy of her life. In return what has she given you? A few kisses, a pretence of love, and a heavy burden on your poor head! If the madcap hadn’t tied you to her, the worst criticism to be made would have been that you could have got the kisses and the rest very much cheaper. But as it is well, I think you’d better say good-bye to her.”

Morgan shook his head. “Impossible!” he said.

“She wouldn’t grieve very much,” insisted Helen. “She certainly couldn’t go on doing anything for long except thinking of herself. You may be sure that once she realises your present estimate of her, she will not wish to keep you longer. She is not wicked as I am, you know she is simply an exaggerated incarnation of the most unsatisfactory sides of feminine nature. All women have something of her in them, but the less of her they have the more charming you’ll find them. In the sham, tawdry world of the footlights she feels something akin to her whole being. It calls to such a woman almost from her very cradle, and fly to it she must. It is true that, in her case, this stage-infatuation was a real misfortune, for in some other walk she might have made a furore. That nude scene, in fact, was symbolic of the temperament, and, had she taken to writing, would have come out as an autobiographic novel. There are women who cannot make themselves interesting to men without the confidence-trick, who cannot even talk to a man for the first time without laying bare their whole souls. Should a woman you scarcely know try the trick on you shun her. She also is afflicted with the same disease as your Cleo, with the same rage for displaying her interesting self; though it may find a more refined and certainly a more decent expression. I am giving you so long a lecture because you sadly need it. I am giving away my sisters to you, because you must be protected against them. If I had given you a few such sermons in the past, you would not have had to undergo the punishment of listening to this one now. Now, having well lectured you, let us proceed to be practical. I am going to pay the debts she has incurred and after that she ought to leave you free.”

“No, Helen!” exclaimed Morgan. “You have paid enough already. I feel utterly contemptible when I think of the use to which I have put your money.”

“Why will you persist in taking such unphilosophic views? For a poet, you have a singular grip on the world. To me money is not such a reality. And if it were, what is it between you and me? If the position were reversed, Morgan it may be a shocking admission to make I should not hesitate to take money from you, you conventional Philistine. I thought you were above such petty considerations to say nothing of their coarseness.”

“It’s unkind of you to overload me with debt and employ specious arguments to persuade me the load doesn’t weigh.”

“How can there be such a thing as a debt between us? I don’t really believe you’re going to punish me by not behaving sensibly.”

And so the battle continued, each fighting doggedly. He kept dragging in the five hundred pounds he had already had, and she insisting that mustn’t count, even if regarded from a strict business point of view. For she claimed that he had caused her unspeakable torture of late, at least as great as that of a lady plaintiff in a breach of promise case, and she was, therefore, entitled to damages. The pleasure he would give her by his agreeing to the cancelling of the old debt would only be fair compensation. Then, since this old debt had been wiped out, there was no reason why she should not help now.

He ended by compromising on both points. The repayment of the five hundred pounds was to be deferred indefinitely, the debt itself being absolutely cancelled in the meanwhile, but it was to revive if he should ever have the means to satisfy it. And also Helen was to be allowed to pay the theatrical liabilities, provided Cleo agreed to her doing so, though her identity was not to be divulged.

“And now that we have at last come to an understanding, I think we deserve some tea after our exertions,” she declared, rising to ring for it. “Practically I have gained my points, though not verbally. I have profound faith in woman’s dogged persistence. It can achieve anything even win your love, Morgan. Let me see. How far had we got? You were to kiss me on the forehead once each time? And this stage has four months to run before any advance can be made.”

Her reference to her love for him chilled him. Somehow he now believed in it as real, though he had always taken it as a toying pretence. He had come to her to-day as to a comrade to feel himself in shelter for a little while, and for the luxury of opening his heart to her. And now there came upon him a great sense of guilt towards Helen, perhaps accentuated at that moment when his consciousness of her worth had arrived at its fullest and had endeared her to him more than ever before. He was filled with remorse as he remembered he had taken pleasure in keeping from her the knowledge of Margaret’s very existence, when Margaret was for him all that Helen aspired to be.

His habit of keeping the various threads of his life distinct had led him to omit the consideration of what might be involved in their subtle relation, for they were all necessarily related since they were merged in the wholeness of his life; and it seemed to him now, all a-thrill as he was with Helen’s sympathy, he had behaved abominably in not telling her that his spirit vibrated only for Margaret, that the thought of Margaret brought him all the magic emotion that floats and palpitates, like some wondrous sweet perfume, and that the elect who love true alone may know.

He had already told her to-day much of what he had hidden from her. Let him complete the confession and reveal even what was most sacred to him. Even now he was conscious of certain instincts that made for reservation, but he fought against them.

“Helen,” he called, “I wonder whether you would care to listen to the sentimental chapters.”

She had been watching his face whilst he had hesitated and she now grew white.

“You know we used to talk quite a deal about those sentimental chapters,” he went on. “There was a sweet little girl, too, whose existence you suspected.”

“I remember,” said Helen faintly. “We did talk about those chapters, but you would never let me get a glimpse of what was inside them. And then I could never really learn whether they were real or imaginary. As a woman of the world, I believed there must be such chapters in the biography of a young man who had lived twenty-eight whole years; as a woman in love with the young man of twenty-eight, I longed to disbelieve in them. Which shows that the real nature of the individual is finer than life is. Life would make us all cynics if the noble in some of us did not find truth too plebeian a fellow to keep company with. I have long since suspected that truth is not that beautiful nude young person one sees rising out of wells at Academy Exhibitions. Illusion, at any rate, is every whit as real a factor of the universe, and it is far more agreeable to live with. So, naturally, Morgan, I chose it to live with, hoping, of course, it was not illusion. However, there was a sweet, little girl?”

“Your inference from my poem was perfectly correct.”

“Farewell, my fine dreams,” said Helen, in mock-heroic declamation, which did not blind him to the pain beneath. “But you’ll introduce me to her, won’t you?”

“It’s the sweet little girl’s sister,” he corrected; “but I can’t introduce you to her, because I shall never see her again.”

“You shall see her again,” said Helen. “Don’t be such a faint heart.”

“Even if I were free, I am not fit even to look at her.”

“The sooner you get a more appreciative conception of yourself, the better.”

“Truth has too great a hold over me for that.”

“How fine it must be to be loved by you,” half-mused Helen. “With you it is first love and everlasting.”

“Yes, it is everlasting. It is a quality of my fibre, divinely inwoven like mind in matter. It is something immortal, so that even if Margaret change and forget me wholly, she can never take away the living fragrance that came to me in the first times. I have loved her and shall love her always.”

“What nice things you say. If they could only have been inspired by me! But all that is over now. So her name’s Margaret. I am sure she will never change, nor even begin to forget you, Morgan. But won’t you begin to read those chapters now? I do so want to hear them.”

He placed them before her unreservedly and she at length had his life complete. But when he had finished he was alarmed at her pallor.

“You are not well, Helen,” he cried impulsively.

“’Tis nothing. I shall be all right in a moment.” She drew her breath heavily. “It feels like pins and needles,” she added. “I want to get the transition over now, though it is rather an abrupt one.”

“The transition!” he repeated, only half-comprehending.

“Yes. It is attended with queer sensations. Pins and needles, thousands of them and something feels tight. But I shall emerge all the better for it. So far I have only loved you; henceforth I want to love you and Margaret as well.”

“How I have made you suffer!” he murmured brokenly. His hand sought hers. “My good angel!”

She drew her hand back.

“No not angel, but only a simple prophet; and as a prophet I tell you you were born to be happy.”

He shook his head, bethinking himself he must go back to his Cleo.

“Now I hope you won’t make me miserable again,” said Helen, as he rose to go, “by leaving me in the dark about you. And mind you let me know at once if you have need of me to-morrow. A special messenger will be sure to find me, as I shall not be leaving the house till four o’clock. Keep a stout heart and let the light of hope vanquish the vapours and fogs. Above all, bear my prophecy in mind.”