“Apropos of my woodland walk with poor Arthur. Auntie, I do believe you're afraid I'm going to fall in love with the dear fellow.”
“No,” said Aunt Polly; “it is not exactly that, for I'd never be able to sleep at night if I thought you capable of anything quite so ghastly. But we must have some care of what people will think, my dear Helen.”
As a matter of fact, Aunt Polly did have some very serious fears about the matter, as has been hinted before; it was, perhaps, a kind of tribute to the divine fire which even society's leaders pay. If it had been a question of a person of her own sense and experience, the word “genius” would have suggested no danger to Mrs. Roberts, but it was different with a young and probably sentimental person like Helen, with her inflaming beauty.
“As a matter of fact, Aunt Polly,” said Helen, “everybody understands my intimacy with Arthur.”
“Tell me, Helen dear,” said the other, turning her keen glance upon her; “tell me the honest truth.”
“About what?”
“You are not in love with Arthur?”
And Helen answered her with her eyes very wide open: “No, I certainly am not in the least.”
And the other drew secretly a great breath of relief. “Is he in love with you, Helen?” she asked.
As Helen thought of Arthur's departure, the question could not but bring a smile. “I—I'm afraid he is,” she said.—“a very little.”