Crushed into his embrace she did not seem to know any the more what she was going to do about it. Her flushed cheek lay hot against his; her hands moved restlessly on his shoulders; she tried to think—strove to consider, to see what it was that lay before her—what she had to do about this matter of falling in love. But her fast beating heart told her nothing; a listless happiness invaded her; mind and body yielded to the lethargy; thought was an effort, and the burden lay with this wonderful being who held her in his arms—who, once mortal—had assumed the magic of immortality—this youthful god who was once a man—her lover. "It’s got to come right somehow, my darling," he whispered. "Yes—somehow." "You’ll explain it some day—so that I shall understand how to make it come right." She did not answer, but her cheek pressed closer against his. When they entered the studio Helen, seated by the tea table, rose with a gesture of warning: "That child is in my room and Harry is with her. They were standing together over there by the piano when I came out of my room. I saw at once that she was on the verge of something—she tried to look at me—tried to speak; and Harry didn’t even make the effort. So I said, quite casually, ’It _is_ frightfully close in the studio, Marie. But you’ll find it cool in my room. Better lie down in there for a moment.’ ... They’re in there. I don’t know what I hope, exactly. She is such a dear.... Where on earth have you two been?" "On the stairs," said Stephanie. "We started to get something—what was it, Jim? Oh, yes; there’s no lemon here——" "Did you get any?" "No; we just conversed." She picked up a cake, nibbled it, selected a strawberry and nibbled that, too. The tea wasn’t fresh, but she sipped it, sitting there very silent and preoccupied with now and then a slow side-glance at her lover, who was attempting to make the conversation general. Helen responded lightly, gaily, maintaining her part in a new and ominous situation which had now become perfectly recognizable to her. For these two people on either side of her had perfectly betrayed themselves—this silent, flushed girl, still deep under the spell of the master magic of the world—this too talkative, too plausible, too absent-minded young man who ate whatever was handed to him, evidently unaware that he was eating anything, and whose eyes continually reverted to the girl. The smile on Helen’s lips was a little fixed, perhaps, but it was generous and sweet and untroubled. A man sat at her elbow whom she could care for, if she let herself go. A girl sat on the other side who was another man’s wife, and who was already in love with this man. But the deep anxiety in Helen’s heart was not visible in her smile. "What about that very tragic pair in my room?" she asked at last. "Shall we clear out and give them the whole place to settle it in? It’s getting worse than a problem play——"