Helen led the way across the hall, shoved a cool, linen-covered armchair in front of one of the terrace windows. "I always like it here better on a warm morning, looking out on the shadows rather than on sunshine. And there's usually a breeze."
Opposite the armchair Helen placed one of the Sheratons for herself. She made a little waving motion toward the armchair. "Sit down, please," she said; "take that chair."
Stella complied—at least partially. She took the extreme edge of the chair. It was one of those low deep affairs. She'd have a frightful time getting out of it if she sat back. Helen sat down, too. There was a pause—a pause that threatened to become awkward.
"Is it very warm in town this morning?" Helen inquired.
Stella ignored the question. Might as well take the bull by the horns.
"I suppose you think it's funny my coming here."
"No, I don't," earnestly Helen assured her, leaning forward, clasping her hands upon her knees. "You and I have a great deal in common. I don't think it's funny at all."
"Well, funny or not, I had to come. I thought of writing at first, but, gracious, if a thing is important enough to you, you'll do it the right way—at least, the way that seems right to you—whatever any one thinks. There are some things I had to know that nobody but you could tell me, so I decided to come right down here myself and ask them."
"That was the right way."
"I've heard a lot about you."
