“Hélène, I have a word to say to you,” and he would lead her aside, drawing her hand downward. “I have heard of certain projects concerning⁠ ⁠… you know. Well my dear child, you know how your father’s heart rejoices to know that you⁠ ⁠… You have suffered so much.⁠ ⁠… But, my dear child, consult only your own heart. That is all I have to say,” and concealing his unvarying emotion he would press his cheek against his daughter’s and move away.

Bilíbin, who had not lost his reputation of an exceedingly clever man, and who was one of the disinterested friends so brilliant a woman as Elèn always has⁠—men friends who can never change into lovers⁠—once gave her his view of the matter at a small and intimate gathering.

“Listen, Bilibine,” said Elèn (she always called friends of that sort by their surnames), and she touched his coat sleeve with her white, beringed fingers. “Tell me, as you would a sister, what I ought to do. Which of the two?”

Bilíbin wrinkled up the skin over his eyebrows and pondered, with a smile on his lips.