of a clock. Outside, the traffic swept by, and feet pattered along the pavement. But this vulgar storm of life seemed shut out of Helena’s room, that remained indifferent, like a church. Two candles burned dimly as on an altar, glistening yellow on the dark piano. The lamp was blown out, and the flameless fire, a red rubble, dwindled in the grate, so that the yellow glow of the candles seemed to shine even on the embers. Still no one spoke.
At last Helena shivered slightly in her chair, though did not change her position. She sat motionless.
“Will you make coffee, Louisa?” she asked. Louisa lifted herself, looked at her friend, and stretched slightly.
“Oh!” she groaned voluptuously. “This is so comfortable!”
“Don’t trouble then, I’ll go. No, don’t get up,” said Helena, trying to disengage herself. Louisa reached and put her hands on Helena’s wrists.
“I will go,” she drawled, almost groaning with voluptuousness and appealing love.
Then, as Helena still made movements to rise, the elder woman got up slowly, leaning as she did so all her weight on her friend.
“Where is the coffee?” she asked, affecting the dulness of lethargy. She was full of small affectations, being consumed with uneasy love.
“I think, my dear,” replied Helena, “it is in its usual place.”
“Oh—o-o-oh!” yawned Louisa, and she dragged herself out.
The two had been intimate friends for years, had slept together, and played together, and lived
