She hated to ask this girl of things which she should have known
better than any one else. But she forced herself to do it. She felt
she must know certainly and at once.
"How do you know this?" she asked. "Are you sure there is no mistake?"
"He told me himself," said Marion, "when he talked of letting the
plays go and returning to America. He said he must go back; that his
money was gone."
"He is gone to America!" Helen said, blankly.
"No, he wanted to go, but I wouldn't let him," Marion went on. "I told
him that some one might take his play any day. And this third one he
has written, the one he finished this summer in town, is the best of
all, I think. It's a love-story. It's quite beautiful." She turned and
arranged her veil at the glass, and as she did so, her eyes fell on
the photographs of herself scattered over the mantel-piece, and she
smiled slightly. But Helen did not see her--she was sitting down now,
pulling at the books on the table. She was confused and disturbed by
emotions which were quite strange to her, and when Marion bade her
good-by she hardly noticed her departure. What impressed her most of
all in what Marion had told her was, she was surprised to find, that
Philip was going away. That she herself had frequently urged him to do
so, for his own peace of mind, seemed now of no consequence. Now that
he seriously contemplated it, she recognized that his absence meant to
her a change in everything. She felt for the first time the peculiar
place he held in her life.
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