Blanche put down the tea-pot. She began to laugh--she really couldn't help it. "You must have been deaf as well as blind!" she exclaimed. "They've been together perpetually! I admit that that's been his doing--not hers. For days past I've seen right into his mind--seen, I mean, the struggle that has been taking place between his pride and--yes, the extraordinary attraction that girl seems to have for him. He's no fortune-hunter, you know; also, he wants so little, the lucky man, that I think her money would be a positive bother to him." Lionel Varick stared at Blanche Farrow. She had a way of being right about worldly matters--the triumph of experience over hope, as she had once observed cynically. But this time he felt sure she was wrong. The feminine interest in a possible, probable, or even improbable love-affair always surprises the average man--surprises, and sometimes annoys him very much. "Do you go so far as to say she returns this--this feeling you attribute to him?" he asked abruptly. He was relieved to see Blanche shake her head. "No; I can't say that I've detected any response on her part," she said lightly. "But she's very old-fashioned and reserved. She certainly enjoys Sir Lyon's rather dull conversation, and she likes cross-examining him about the life of the poor. She's a very good girl," went on Blanche musingly. "She's a tremendous sense of duty. One can never tell--but no, I don't think the idea that Sir Lyon's in love with her has yet crossed her mind! And I should say that she really prefers you to him. She has a tremendous opinion of you, Lionel. I wonder why?" He laughed aloud, for the first time since Bubbles' accident. He knew that what Blanche said was true, and it was a very pleasant, reassuring bit of knowledge. "Old Burnaby would not think of allowing her to marry a penniless baronet," he said smiling. Blanche looked across at him quickly. "Good and obedient as she is to both those old things, I don't think they'd be able to influence Helen Brabazon in such a thing as marriage." "Well, you may be right," said Varick, doubtfully. He felt strongly tempted to take Blanche into his confidence; to tell her, frankly, that he wished to marry Helen. Yet some obscure instinct held him back. Women, even the most sensible women, are so damned sentimental! So he told himself. Lately he had had the unpleasant, disconcerting feeling that whenever Helen looked at him she thought of "poor Milly." "Still, I don't envy Sir Lyon his wooing," went on Blanche. "Helen is a girl who'll take a long time to make up her mind, and who will weigh all the pros and cons." "Then you don't think," said Varick in a low tone, "that she would ever be swept off her feet?" At one time he had felt sure she would be. "By a grand passion? My dear Lionel, what an absurd idea! But hush--" The door opened, and the object of their discussion came in. Helen Brabazon always looked especially well as breakfast. It was her hour.