“Of course,” said Sir James, with a half-hysteric laugh. “I do. You understand I only repeated a story that was told me, and had no idea of connecting YOU with it. I beg your pardon, I'm sure. I er--er--in fact,” he added suddenly, the embarrassed smile fading from his face as he looked at her fixedly, “I remember now it must have been the concierge of the house, or the opposite one, who told me. He said it was a Russian who carried off that young girl. Of course it was some made-up story.” “I left Paris with the duchess,” said Helen quietly, “before the war.” “Of course. And she knows all about your friendship with this man.” “I don't think she does. I haven't told her. Why should I?” returned Helen, raising her clear eyes to his. “Really, I don't know,” stammered Sir James. “But here she is. Of course if you prefer it, I won't say anything of this to her.” Helen gave him her first glance of genuine emotion; it happened, however, to be scorn. “How odd!” she said, as the duchess leisurely approached them, her glass still in her eye. “Sir James, quite unconsciously, has just been showing me a sketch of my dear old mansarde in Paris. Look! That little window was my room. And, only think of it, Sir James bought it of an old friend of mine, who painted it from the opposite attic, where he lived. And quite unconsciously, too.” “How very singular!” said the duchess; “indeed, quite romantic!” “Very!” said Sir James. “Very!” said Helen. The tone of their voices was so different that the duchess looked from one to the other. “But that isn't all,” said Helen with a smile, “Sir James actually fancied”-- “Will you excuse me for a moment?” said Sir James, interrupting, and turning hastily to the duchess with a forced smile and a somewhat heightened color. “I had forgotten that I had promised Lady Harriet to drive you over to Deep Hill after luncheon to meet that South American who has taken such a fancy to your place, and I must send to the stables.” As Sir James disappeared, the duchess turned to Helen. “I see what has happened, dear; don't mind me, for I frankly confess I shall now eat my luncheon less guiltily than I feared. But tell me, HOW did you refuse him?” “I didn't refuse him,” said Helen. “I only prevented his asking me.” “How?” Then Helen told her all,--everything except her first meeting with Ostrander at the restaurant. A true woman respects the pride of those she loves more even than her own, and while Helen felt that although that incident might somewhat condone her subsequent romantic passion in the duchess's eyes, she could not tell it. The duchess listened in silence. “Then you two incompetents have never seen each other since?” she asked. “No.” “But you hope to?” “I cannot speak for HIM,” said Helen. “And you have never written to him, and don't know whether he is alive or dead?” “No.”