'That would be quite an appropriate attachment, wouldn't it ?' she remarked.
'They seem very much interested in each other, those two.' Althea grew very red.

Her mind knew a horrid wrench.

She did not know whether it was in pride of possessorship, or shame of it, or merely in helpless loyalty that, after a pause, she said: 'Perhaps I ought to have told you, Helen, that Franklin has wanted to marry me for fifteen years.
I've no intention of accepting him; but no one can judge as I can of how big and dear a person he is--in spite of his funniness.' As she spoke she remembered--it was with a gush of undiluted dismay--that to Helen she had in Paris spoken of the 'delightful' suitor, the 'only one.' Did Helen remember?
And how could Helen connect that delightful 'one' with Franklin, and with her own attitude towards Franklin?
But Helen now had turned her eyes upon her, opening them--it always seemed to be with difficulty that she did it--widely.

'My dear,' she said, 'I do beg your pardon.

You never gave me a hint.' How, indeed, could the Paris memory have been one?
'There wasn't any hint to give, exactly,' said Althea, blushing more deeply and trying to prevent the tears from rising.