Helena was back.
Magdal** sat amidst iridescent billows of ballgowns, dinner-gowns, tea-gowns, n*****, demi-toilettes, calling-frocks, street-frocks, yachting-frocks, summer-frocks. She had never seen so many clothes outside of a dry-goods shop, and marvelled that any one woman should want so many. They were on the bed, the chairs, the tables, the divan. Two mammoth trunks were but half unpacked. Others, empty, made the hall impassable.
"I love dress," said Helena, superfluously. "And women forgive your beauty and brains so much more willingly if you divert their attention by the one thing their soul can admire without bitterness."
"You have not grown cynical, Helena?" asked Magdal**, anxiously.
"A little. It's a phase of extreme youth which must run its course with the down on the pea
