* * * * *
The days slipped away quickly. I did not see Helene again, but Wrexler
did. Almost every day he met her in the rose garden, where they spent
long hours.
He told me that she was always elusive, but at the same time promising
that some day she would be kinder. He said her voice was like golden
honey and that without her he could not face life.
Once I saw them myself, as I came from an interview with de Lacy. As I
approached the rose garden through an opening in the arches, I saw them
sitting side by side on the marble bench, and of the two, Helene looked
the more earthly. For Wrexler had grown paler and more ethereal every
day. His eyes were luminous as he looked at her adoringly.
She saw me first, and her lips curved sweetly. She rose in a leisurely
fashion, turned her back to me and dropped a low curtsy to Wrexler; then
while I still watched, she extended one slender hand to him. He bent
over it, his lips touched its soft whiteness. A little laugh like the
tinkle of silver bells swept through the garden; then she was gone.
Wrexler stood like a man in a trance. I came quickly forward. "You are
playing with fire!" I cried.