as Cousin Philip wants to be about mine—and quarrelling about her dress-bills—and a lot of things. Well, that's all! What's there in that?"
And the girl sat up straight, dropping her slim, white feet, while her great eyes challenged her companion to say a word in defence of her guardian. Mrs. Friend's head was turning.
"But it was surely wrong and foolish—" she began. Helena interrupted her.
"I daresay it was," she said impatiently, "but that's not my affair. It's Lord Donald's. I'm not responsible for him. But he's done nothing that I know of to make me cut him—and I won't! He told me all about it quite frankly. I said I'd stick by him—and I will."
"And Sir Luke Preston is a friend of Lord Buntingford's?"
"Yes—" said Helena unwillingly—"I suppose he is. I didn't know. Perhaps I wouldn't have asked Donald if I'd known. But I did ask him, and he accepted. And now Buntingford's going to insult him publicly. And that I won't stand—I vow I won't! It's insulting me too!"
And springing up, she began a stormy pacing of the room, her white gown falling back from her neck and throat, and her hair floating behind her. Mrs. Friend had begun to collect herself. In the few hours she had passed under Lord Buntingford's roof she seemed to herself to have been passing through a forcing house. Qualities she had never dreamed of possessing or claiming she must somehow show, or give up the game. Unless she could understand and get hold of this wholly unexpected situation, as Helena presented it, she might as well re-pack her box, and order the village fly for departure.
"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" she said presently, as the white skirts swept past her.
"Mind! Not a bit. What do you want to know?"
"Are you in love with Lord Donald?"
Helena laughed.
"If I were, do you think I'd let him run away with Lady Preston or anybody else? Not at all! Lord Donald's just one of the men I like talking to. He amuses me. He's very smart. He knows everybody. He's no worse than anybody else. He did all sorts of plucky things in the war. I don't ask Buntingford to like him, of course. He isn't his sort. But he really might let me alone!"
"But you asked him to stay in Lord Buntingford's house—and without consulting—"
"Well—and it's going to be my house, too, for two years—if I can possibly bear it. When Mummy begged me, I told Buntingford my conditions. And he's broken them!"
And standing still, the tempestuous creature drew herself to her full height, her arms rigid by her side—a tragic-comic figure in the dim illumination of the two guttering candles.
Mrs. Friend attempted a diversion.
"Who else is coming for the week-end?"
Instantly Helena's mood dissolved in laughter. She came to perch herself on the arm of Mrs. Friend's chair.
"There—now let's forget my tiresome guardian. I promised to tell you about my 'boys.' Well, there are two of them coming—and Geoffrey French, besides a nephew of Buntingford's, who'll have this property and most of the money some day, always supposing this tyrant of mine doesn't marry, which of course any reasonable man would. Well—there's Peter Dale—the dearest, prettiest little fellow you ever saw. He was aide-de-camp to Lord Brent in the war—very smart—up to everything. He's demobbed, and has gone into the City. Horribly rich already, and will now, of course, make another pile. He dreadfully wants to marry me—but—" she shook her head with emphasis—"No!—it wouldn't do. He tries to kiss me sometimes. I didn't mind it at first. But I've told him not to do it again. Then there's Julian—Julian Horne—Balliol—awfully clever"—she checked off the various items on her fingers—"as poor as a rat—a Socialist, of course—they all are, that kind—but a real one—not like Geoffrey French, who's a sham, though he is in the House, and has joined the Labour party. You see"—her tone grew suddenly serious—"I don't reckon Geoffrey French among my boys."
"He's too old?"
"Oh, he's not so very old. But—I don't think he likes me very much—and I'm not sure whether I like him. He's good fun, however—and he rags Julian Horne splendidly. That's one of his chief functions—and another is, to take a hand in my education—when I allow him—and when Julian isn't about. They both tell me what to read. Julian tells me to read history, and gives me lists of books. Geoffrey talks economics—and philosophy—and I adore it—he talks so well. He gave me Bergson the other day. Have you ever read any of him?"
"Never," said Mrs. Friend, bewildered. "Who is he?"
Helena's laugh woke the echoes of the room. But she checked it at once.
"I don't want him to think we're plotting," she said in a stage-whisper, looking round her. "If I do anything I want to spring it on him!"
"Dear Miss Pitstone—please understand!—I can't help you to plot against Lord Buntingford. You must see I can't. He's my employer and your guardian. If I helped you to do what he disapproves I should simply be doing a dishonourable thing."
"Yes," said Helena reflectively. "Of course I see that. It's awkward. I suppose you promised and vowed a great many things—like one's godmothers and godfathers?"
"No, I didn't promise anything—except that I would go out with you, make myself useful to you, if I could—and help you with foreign languages."
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