Phil was reminded with a start almost of fresh discovery how like Henriette's was Helen's voice. But her face, without a sign of expression, seemed characterless. How could this girl belong to the same family as Henriette and the well-groomed mother? At the same time he felt a certain pity for her. She excited his curiosity in that awkward moment of silence after she had spoken her set phrase of welcome. "You look tired, Helen. You have walked too far," said Henriette, solicitously slipping her arm in her sister's. This, too, was as something foreseen by Helen; the next speech in the play. She was unresponsive at first, her own arms hanging by her side. Then spasmodically, as one who comes out of a fit of absent-mindedness, she raised her hand and pressed it over Henriette's against her waist, a look as for pardon in her eyes. It was not for Phil to note all the little signs that count. He had looked away from Helen to Henriette. "Some of your pictures?" he said to Henriette when they entered the house, nodding toward the walls. "Yes. Mother insists on a permanent exhibition," she replied deprecatingly. He went from one to another, admiring, listening to her comments, and when they had been through the rooms he turned to her, saying: "It's very wonderful to me. I stand a little in awe of you--you who have been in the Salon. I have great luck in cousins and I am luckier still in having an invitation to Mervaux." She had not expected him to speak of the pictures in any critical fashion. How could he know anything about art? She liked his simple attitude. It was always more satisfactory than that of those who pretended to know and did not. "And it's time for me to dress for dinner," she said, "though you need not hurry. Dinner at eight." He had not thought of Helen while he had been looking at the pictures. After Henriette had gone he saw Helen huddled in the depths of a big chair in a corner half hidden by the open door, reading. With the brilliant light of Henriette departed, smaller lights became visible. Helen also was his cousin. But he felt a peculiar awkwardness in speaking to her. He was even afraid that one of her tempers might break on him. He hesitated, as he thought of something to say, and his glance fell on the pile of charcoal drawings on the side table. "Are those your drawings?" he asked. "I plead guilty," she responded equivocally. "May I look?" "Of course. Please do, if you would like to," she said. "They explain themselves," she added, without rising, "and it's at your own risk." He took up one of the drawings. "But I think it corking!" "Honestly?" she asked. "Let me see which one it is!" She sprang up and looked over his shoulder, suddenly changed into a being of glowing vitality. CHAPTER VIII ANOTHER PHASE OF HELEN