"Don't be an ass, Ted--or try to make yourself sorry for yourself. You had a damned good time with your ten hours a day, as you call it, and you got a jolly sight better reward for it than you deserve. In my humble opinion, Helen is too good for you."
"We agree on one thing--that's a blessing," I answered, feeling that I was losing when I really had a good case. "I'll do what I can, but I won't sit by and see Helen--"
"Oh, shut up, Ted! To use plain American, you make me tired. Go into the drawing room and be nice to your mother. Tell her what you have been doing. She'll like to hear about the ten hours a day. You can pitch it strong."
I looked up and saw Helen standing at the door. "Won't you come into the drawing room, Ted? I think your mother expects you."
"Come here, little girl," my father said to Helen. She went and sat on his lap. "Can you manage that boy?"
Helen smiled at me and kissed her father-in-law by way of answer.
"Well, will you please tell him to keep his hair on?"
Helen came to me with a laugh and caught me by the arm.
When we reached the drawing room, my sister said: "Mother has gone up to bed."
We kissed Frances good night and climbed to our own quarters. I went into my study to look out some of my old books. Upon my return I found Helen lying on her bed, sobbing.
"What is it, my love?"--I flew to her and whispered in her ear.
"Ted, darling--will you ever forgive me? I'm homesick."
She sobbed herself asleep in my arms that night. I lay awake, thinking of many things.
A week later the deadlock between my mother and me was still unbroken. Helen, however, was rapidly finding her feet in the joy of exploring London. We went the second evening of our homecoming to the Lyceum to see Henry Irving in _The Bells_ and the next night to his _Charles I_. We lunched out, sometimes at Kettner's in Greek Street, Soho, or down in the City at Crosby Hall or at The Ship and Turtle. Helen could not get enough of riding on the tops of the busses. We used no other conveyance except for going to the theatres. We did a certain standard thing each morning, such as going to the Abbey, St. Paul's, or The Tower, and the rest of the time we rode or walked about without plan or purpose. It was enough to be in London--it mattered little where one went or why, there were marvels to be seen in any direction. We sat a lot in quiet old City churches, particularly in St. Bartholomew's in Smithfield. The restoration had not quite done for the simple majesty of its Norman pillars. I could see London literally soaking into Helen's blood. And she greeted the bookshops on Charing Cross Road like a discovery of old friends. We bought all the plays we could find in the sixpenny boxes.