Helen, blowing a ring of smoke and watching it softly hover, made no comment on these prefatory remarks. 'Well, as you know,' said Gerald, 'to do that needs money; and I've none. And you know that the only solution we could ever find was that I should marry money. And you know that I never found a woman with money whom I liked well enough.' He was not looking at Helen as he said this; his eyes were on the shabby old carpet that he was pacing. And in the pause that followed Helen did not speak. She knew--it was all that she had time to know--that her silence was expectant only, not ominous. Consciousness, now, as well as sub-consciousness, seemed rushing to the bolts and bars and windows of the little lodge of friendship, making it secure--if still it might be made secure--against the storm that gathered. She could not even wonder who Gerald had found. She had only time for the dreadful task of defence, so that no blast of reality should rush in upon them. 'Well,' said Gerald, and it was now with a little more inquiry and with less serenity, 'I think, perhaps, I've found her. I think, Helen, that your nice Althea cares about me, you know, and would have me.' Helen sat still, and did not move her eyes from the sky and trees. There was a long white cloud in the sky, an island floating in a sea of blue. She noted its bays and peninsulas, the azure rivers that interlaced it, its soft depressions and radiant uplands. She never forgot it. She could have drawn the snowy island, from memory, for years. All her life long she had waited for this moment; all her life long she had lived with the sword of its acceptance in her heart. She had thought that she had accepted; but now the sword turned--horribly turned--round and round in her heart, and she did not know what she should do. 'Well,' Gerald repeated, standing still, and, as she knew, looking at the back of her head in a little perplexity. Helen looked cautiously down at the cigarette she held; it still smoked languidly. She raised it to her lips and drew a whiff. Then, after that, she dared a further effort. 'Well?' she repeated. Gerald laughed a trifle nervously. 'I asked you,' he reminded her. She was able, testing her strength, as a tight-rope walker slides a careful foot along the rope, to go on. 'Oh, I see. And do you care about her?' Gerald was silent for another moment, and she guessed that he had run his hand through his hair and rumpled it on end. 'She really is a little dear, isn't she?' he then said. 'You mayn't find her interesting--though I really do; and she may be like _eau rougie_; but, as you said, it's a pleasant draught to have beside one. She is gentle and wise and good, and she seems to take her place here very sweetly, doesn't she? She seems really to belong here, don't you think so?' Helen could not answer that question. 'Do you want me to tell you whether you care for her?' she asked. He laughed. 'I suppose I do.'