Everybody who was anybody wandered or drove or motored in its precincts, or sat on the green chairs under the trees and looked at each other’s clothes, and speculated why So-and-so was--or was not--with somebody else; and somehow or other spring struck a note of freshness into even the stalest speculations, and did its best to prick the heart towards beauty and delight. Anastasia was dressed to join the distinguished throng. It was her world, and she knew that she would be followed by whispers, criticisms, and speculation, even as she would be joined by groups of privileged young men, very good-looking, well-dressed, ardent, and most terribly silly--and she knew that none of this would amuse her very much, and yet that if it failed her, and when it failed her, there would be nothing else. She was dressed in white and orange, and as she looked at the superb curves of her figure, at the classical white face and wide dark eyes, at the huge coils of her magnificent black hair, she smiled a little. “Keats to-day,” she said to herself, “ye ardent marigolds!” Then she turned round and faced Edith Lestrange. “I came up unannounced,” said Edith. “I said you expected me. I don’t know whether you did. Oh, Helen--Helen; it’s you!” Helen of Troy stood quite still, her arms dropped to her sides, and as she stood there a change came over her face; it was the same face, and yet the years came out in it--the suppressed, ignored, and baffled years; she could no more have passed--even with gullible youth--for twenty-five. Edith came forward, her hands outstretched. “Oh, Helen,” she said with a quiver in her voice, “am I so old you don’t remember me--twenty years ago?” “Don’t!” said Helen of Troy. She moistened her lips and put her hands up to her throat, then suddenly she began to laugh at first, just her old velvety laugh of music, and then suddenly distorted, bitter laughter--terrible to listen to--like harmony run mad. “Oh, I remember you!” she cried between the gusts of her laughter. “I remember you all right, Edith.” Edith came forward quietly; her face was very white and her eyes looked drawn and tired, but she drew the orange and white figure shaking with its bitter laughter to the sofa and sat down beside her. “I know--I know,” she whispered gently; “don’t laugh so, Helen.” “It’s all so funny,” laughed Helen of Troy, “so ghastly, ridiculously, agonizingly funny, and he might be your own son or mine, my dear--only we haven’t any!” “We haven’t any,” repeated Edith. “Now, Helen, give me your hand. See, it’s very cold--and now your other hand! The years have made no difference--nothing has made any difference. You should have come to see me. When did you first know I was his step-mother?” Helen had found her self-control again; she leaned back on the sofa-cushion with yielded hands and half-shut eyes, gazing at her companion.