They sat for a moment in sudden, rather awkward silence. Helen looked like a tall June lily, in her summer gown; she had taken her hat off; her hair was a little tumbled and curly; the wind blew in strong from the sea, tossing the lace curtains of the Flying Jib like sails on a toy boat. The scent of the sweet-briar was delicately defined in the room. Bayard looked at her without any attempt to speak. She answered his silent question by saying, abruptly:-- “You know you’ll _have_ to forgive me, whether you want to, or not.” “Forgive you?” “Why, for being vexed. I _was_ a little, at first. But I needn’t have been such a schoolgirl as to show it.” “If you would be so kind as to tell me what I can possibly have done to--deserve your displeasure--” began Bayard helplessly. “If a man doesn’t understand without being told, I’ve noticed he _can’t_ understand when he is told.... Why didn’t you wait till next fall before you came to see us, Mr. Bayard?” “Oh!” said Bayard. His happy look came back to his tired face, as if a magic lantern had shifted a beautiful slide. “Is _that_ it?” He laughed delightedly. “Why, I suppose I must have seemed rude--neglectful, at any rate. But I’ve noticed that if a woman doesn’t understand without being told, she makes up for it by her readiness of comprehension when she is told.” “What a nice, red coal!” smiled Helen. “The top of my head feels quite warm. Dear me! Isn’t there a spot burned bald?” She felt anxiously of her pretty hair. “Come over and see my work,” said Bayard, “and you’ll never ask me again why I didn’t do anything I--would so much rather do.” “I never asked you before!” flashed Helen. “You did me an honor that I shall remember,” said Bayard gravely. “Oh, please don’t! Pray forget it as soon as you can,” cried Helen, with red cheeks. “You can’t know, you see you _can’t_ know, how a man situated as I am prizes the signs of the simplest human friendship that is sincere and womanly.” So said Bayard quietly. Helen drew a little quick breath. She seemed reconciled now, to herself, and to him. They began to talk at once, quite fast and freely. Afterwards he tried to remember what it had all been about, but he found it not easy; the evening passed on wings; he felt the atmosphere of this little pleasure with a delight impossible to be understood by a man who had not known and graced society and left it. Now and then he spoke of his work, but Helen did not exhibit a marked interest in the subject. Bayard drew the modest inference that he had obtruded his own affairs with the obtuseness common to missionaries and other zealots; he roused himself to disused conversation, and to the forgotten topics of the world. It did not occur to him that this was precisely what she intended. The young lady drew him out, and drew him on. They chatted about Cesarea and Beacon Street, about Art, Clubs, Magazine literature, and the Symphony Concerts, like the ordinary social human being.