VII
Helen’s attitude towards Clare at this time was strangely at variance with her former one. As soon as she learned that Clare was playing in the concert she wrote to her and told her always to come into Lavery’s before the rehearsal began. “It will be nice seeing you so often, Clare,” she wrote, “and you needn’t worry about getting back in the evenings because Kenneth will always see you home.”
Speed said, when he heard of Helen’s invitation: “But I thought you didn’t like Clare, Helen?”
“Oh, I was silly,” she answered. “I do like her, really. And besides, we must be hospitable. You’ll see her back in the evenings, won’t you?”
“I daresay I can do,” he said.
Then, suddenly laughing aloud, he caught her into his arms and kissed her. “I’m so glad it’s all right again, Helen. I don’t like my little Helen to throw away her old friends. It isn’t like her. You see how happy we shall all be, now that we’re friendly again with Clare.”
“I know,” she said.
“I believe you are the most lovable and loving little girl in the world except—” he frowned at her playfully—“when the devil persuades you that you don’t like people. Some day he’ll persuade you that you don’t like me.”
“He won’t,” she said.
“I hope he won’t.”
She seemed to him then more than ever a child, a child whose winsomeness was alloyed with quaint and baffling caprice. He loved her, too, very gladly and affectionately; and he knew then, quite clearly because the phase was past that her announced dislike of Clare had made him love her not quite so much. But now all was happy and unruffled again, so what did it matter?