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“Now tell me what you mean,” she said.

“I am sorry if I discovered anything you didn’t want known yet,” said Helen, “but the door was open. Mr. Wimpole had just left you and had not shut it, and I could not help seeing.”

Marion interrupted her with an eager exclamation of enlightenment.

“Oh, you were there, then,” she cried. “And you?” she asked, eagerly–“you thought Phil cared for me–that we are engaged, and it hurt you; you are sorry? Tell me,” she demanded, “are you sorry?”

Helen drew back and stretched out her hand toward the door.

“How can you!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “You have no right.”

Marion stood between her and the door.

“I have every right,” she said, “to help my friends, and I want to help you and Philip. And, indeed, I do hope you are sorry. I hope you are miserable. And I’m glad you saw me kiss him. That was the first and the last time, and I did it because I was happy and glad for him; and because I love him, too, but not in the least in the way he loves you. No one ever loved any one as he loves you. And it’s time you found it out. And if I have helped to make you find it out, I’m glad, and I don’t care how much I hurt you.”

“Marion!” exclaimed Helen, “what does it mean? Do you mean that you are not engaged; that–“

“Certainly not,” Marion answered. “I am going to marry Reggie. It is you that Philip loves, and I am very sorry for you that you don’t love him.”

Helen clasped Marion’s hands in both of hers.

“But, Marion!” she cried, “I do, oh, I do!”

* * * * *

There was a thick yellow fog the next morning, and with it rain and a sticky, depressing dampness which crept through the window-panes, and which neither a fire nor blazing gas-jets could overcome.

Philip stood in front of the fireplace with the morning papers piled high on the centre-table and scattered over the room about him.

He had read them all, and he knew now what it was to wake up famous, but he could not taste it. Now that it had come it meant nothing, and that it was so complete a triumph only made it the harder. In his most optimistic dreams he had never imagined success so satisfying as the reality had proved to be; but in his dreams Helen had always held the chief part, and without her, success seemed only to mock him.

He wanted to lay it all before her, to say, “If you are pleased, I am happy. If you are satisfied, then I am content. It was done for you, and I am wholly yours, and all that I do is yours.” And, as though in answer to his thoughts, there was an instant knock at the door, and Helen entered the room and stood smiling at him across the table.

Her eyes were lit with excitement, and spoke with many emotions, and her cheeks were brilliant with color. He had never seen her look more beautiful.

“Why, Helen!” he exclaimed, “how good of you to come. Is there anything wrong? Is anything the matter?”

She tried to speak, but faltered, and smiled at him appealingly.

“What is it?” he asked in great concern.

Helen drew in her breath quickly, and at the same moment motioned him away–and he stepped back and stood watching her in much perplexity.

With her eyes fixed on his she raised her hands to her head, and her fingers fumbled with the knot of her veil. She pulled it loose, and then, with a sudden courage, lifted her hat proudly, as though it were a coronet, and placed it between them on his table.

“Philip,” she stammered, with the tears in her voice and eyes, “if you will let me–I have come to stay.”

The table was no longer between them. He caught her in his arms and kissed her face and her uncovered head again and again. From outside the rain beat drearily and the fog rolled through the street, but inside before the fire the two young people sat close together, asking eager questions or sitting in silence, staring at the flames with wondering, happy eyes.

The Lion and the Unicorn saw them only once again. It was a month later when they stopped in front of the shop in a four-wheeler, with their baggage mixed on top of it, and steamer-labels pasted over every trunk.

“And, oh, Prentiss!” Carroll called from the cab-window. “I came near forgetting. I promised to gild the Lion and the Unicorn if I won out in London. So have it done, please, and send the bill to me. For I’ve won out all right.” And then he shut the door of the cab, and they drove away forever.

“Nice gal, that,” growled the Lion. “I always liked her. I am glad they’ve settled it at last.”

The Unicorn sighed sentimentally. “The other one’s worth two of her,” he said.