The Trespasser

'Yes,' she answered, and she pushed back her sleeve, revealing a fine,

strong arm, which was scarlet on the outer side from shoulder to wrist,

like some long, red-burned fruit. The girl laid her cheek on the

smarting soft flesh caressively.

'It is quite hot,' she smiled, again caressing her sun-scalded arm with

peculiar joy.

'Funny to see a sunburn like that in mid-winter,' he replied, frowning.

'I can't think why it should last all these months. Don't you ever put

anything on to heal it?' She smiled at him again, almost pitying, then put her mouth lovingly on

the burn.

'It comes out every evening like this,' she said softly, with curious

joy.

'And that was August, and now it's February!' he exclaimed. 'It must be

psychological, you know. You make it come--the smart; you invoke it.' She looked up at him, suddenly cold.

'I! I never think of it,' she answered briefly, with a kind of sneer.

The young man's blood ran back from her at her acid tone. But the

mortification was physical only. Smiling quickly, gently--' 'Never?' he re-echoed.

There was silence between them for some moments, whilst Louisa continued

to play the piano for their benefit. At last: 'Drat it,' she exclaimed, flouncing round on the piano-stool.

The two looked up at her.

'Ye did run well--what hath hindered you?' laughed Byrne.

'You!' cried Louisa. 'Oh, I can't play any more,' she added, dropping

her arms along her skirt pathetically. Helena laughed quickly.

'Oh I can't, Helen!' pleaded Louisa.

'My dear,' said Helena, laughing briefly, 'you are really under _no_

obligation _whatever_.' With the little groan of one who yields to a desire contrary to her

self-respect, Louisa dropped at the feet of Helena, laid her arm and her

head languishingly on the knee of her friend. The latter gave no sign,

but continued to gaze in the fire. Byrne, on the other side of the

hearth, sprawled in his chair, smoking a reflective cigarette.

The room was very quiet, silent even of the tick 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.