I didn't realize, for my manners
were all gone. I'd lived in a kind of stupor, I think, for a long time;
then being with you was like a dream, and the sudden waking was too much
for me. I've been ashamed often, since, in thinking of it--and I was well
punished for not taking you in. I thought only of myself, and I behaved
like a whining, unbalanced boy. But I had whined from the moment I met
you, because I was sickly with egoism and loneliness and self-pity. I'm
keeping you from the dancing. Won't you let me take you back to the
house?"
A commanding and querulous contralto voice was heard behind them, and a
dim, majestic figure appeared under the Japanese lantern.
"Helen?"
The girl turned quickly. "Yes, mamma."
"May I ask you to return to the club-house for supper with me? Your father
has been very much worried about you. We have all been looking for you."
"Mamma, this is Mr. Harkless."
"How do you do?" The lady murmured this much so far under her breath that
the words might have been mistaken for anything else--most plausibly,
perhaps, for, "Who cares if it is?"--nor further did she acknowledge
John's profound inclination. Frigidity and complaint of ill-usage made a
glamour in every fold of her expensive garments; she was large and
troubled and severe. A second figure emerged from behind her and bowed
with the suave dignity that belonged to Brainard Macauley.
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