"And"--Henriette smiling quite sweetly took an excruciatingly long time to say it--"you love him yourself. Is that it?" Helen was silent, her eyes downcast, feeling all the blood in her body running to her face. To have the question put bluntly--this question which she had never put to herself! "How you blush!" Henriette remarked. "Oh, I've watched you plotting! I know!" Helen looked up and her glance was so steady and prolonged that Henriette averted hers. "No, I have not plotted. I plot for such a purpose! One does not know what is in one's heart and one does not say 'no' or 'yes' if it means lying. I am going away, so I'll leave it to you. He shall not know that it was not you." "On the contrary, on thinking it out I've concluded to win my own proposals--I think I'm capable of it," she smiled charmingly, "and not to work in pairs in affairs of this kind." "That is better," Helen agreed. "It's more straightforward for me." "And gives you a chance, too," said Henriette benignly. "As it's dark, perhaps he may take pity and elope with you to-night." "In that case," Helen replied, with an effort at humour, "we shall be breakfasting in Paris and not at Mervaux." As she held the door open before starting on her errand she hesitated, thinking that perhaps Henriette might ask forgiveness for the blow which still stung her cheek. But Henriette gave no sign for contrition and Helen made no further overture. Sturdily as a grenadier she marched down the stairs and out into the grounds to have the agony of her confession to Philip Sanford over as speedily as possible. She was suffering horribly, but the spirit of a new freedom possessed her. She blessed that thousand francs and uttered a silent prayer for M. Vailliant, out there in his place among the walls of men trying to stem the tide of invasion, in a way that would have made him feel that he had not been an art dealer in vain. The Rubicon was crossed, and plain girls no less than Cæsar feel relieved after a decision which makes the path to battle clear and chooses the enemy. The thousand francs would take her to America. Perhaps if M. Vailliant had liked her charcoals well enough to exhibit them, some one in New York would take them up. If not, well, she had seen those enormous American papers with pages and pages of cartoons. Might not she sell enough of her conceits to make a living? With the American strain in her blood she ought to be able to adapt herself to conditions. She recalled the saying of her old teacher: "Don't be afraid. Make the fight. Crusts earned by pot-boilers taste sweet if true art is in your heart." She felt a new strength in her limbs; the very breaths in her lungs going deeper, as true warriors' must when they cross the Rubicon. But ahead of her was a duty which was humiliation in every fibre for any woman; yes, the more so the plainer she was. For she was a woman, quite full grown; she thought of herself in this way for the first time.