"I’m in rags, emotionally," she said. "This loving a young man is a disturbing business to a girl who’s just learned how.... Are you coming upstairs?"
They ascended the old staircase together in silence. At her door she held out her hand; he kissed it, released the fingers, but they closed around his and she drew him to her.
"What _shall_ I do?" she said. "Tell me?"
"I don’t know, dearest. There seems to be nothing you can do for us."
"Anything that dishonours me would dishonour you and dad, wouldn’t it, Jim?"
"You understand, don’t you? I count myself as nothing. Only you count, Jim. But I can’t marry you. And I can’t go to you otherwise without betraying both dad and you. It isn’t a question of my being married and of loving you enough to disregard it. I do. But you and dad require more than that of the girl you made one of your own race. I am loyal to what you both expect of me.... Good night, dear.... There doesn’t seem to be any way I can make you happy. The only way I can show my love and gratitude to dad and you is to retain your respect ... by being unkind—Jim—my dearest—dearest——"
She closed her eyes and gave him her lips, slipped swiftly out of his arms and into her room.
"Oh, I’m desperately in love," she said, shaking her head at him as she slowly closed the door. "I’m going to get very, very little sleep, I fear.... Jim?"
"You know," she said, "Helen is a charming, clever, talented, beautiful girl. If you are afraid my behaviour is going to make you unhappy——"
There was a silence, then Stephanie shook her head and gently closed her door.
In July Stephanie asked Harry Belter and his wife to spend a week at Runner’s Rest. They arrived, the husband a vastly modified edition of his former boisterous, careless, assertive self—a subdued young man now, who haunted his wife with edifying assiduity, moving when she moved, sitting when she sat, tagging faithfully at her dainty heels as though a common mind originated their every inclination.
Philip Grayson, who had been asked with them, told Helen that the Belters had bored him horribly on the journey up.
"You know," he said, "Harry Belter used to be at least amusing, and Marie Cliff was certainly a sparkling companion. But they seem to have no conversation except for each other, no interests outside of each other, and if a fellow ventures to make a remark they either don’t listen or they politely make an effort to notice him."