"Not at all. Unbiased opinion--civilly expressed. If you really were an emancipated young woman, Helena, you'd take it so! But now--" his tone changed--"let's come to business. What have you and Philip been quarrelling about?" Helena straightened her shoulders, as though to meet certain disapproval. "Because--I asked Lord Donald to spend the week-end here--" "You didn't!" "I did; and Cousin Philip wired to him and forbade him the house. Offence No. 1. Then as I intended all the same to see Jim, I told him I would go up and lunch with him at the Ritz. Cousin Philip vows I shan't, and he seems to have some underhand means of stopping it--I--I don't know what--" "Underhand! Philip! I say, Helena, I wonder whether you have any idea how people who really know him think about Buntingford!" "Oh, of course men back up men!" "Stuff! It's really silly--abominable too--the way you talk of him--I can't help saying it." And this time it was Geoffrey's turn to look indignant. His long face with its deeply set grey eyes, a rather large nose, and a fine brow under curly hair, had flushed suddenly. "If you can't help it, I suppose you must say it. But I don't know why I should stay and listen," said Helena provokingly, making a movement as though to rise. But he laid a hand on her dress: "No, no, Helena, don't go--look here--do you ever happen to notice Buntingford--when he's sitting quiet--and other people are talking round him?" "Not particularly." The tone was cold, but she no longer threatened departure. "Well, I just ask you--some time--to _watch_. An old friend of his said to me the other day--'I often feel that Buntingford is the saddest man I know.'" "Why should he be?" asked Helena imperiously. "I can't tell you. No one can. It's just what those people think who know him best. Well, that's one fact about him--that his _men_ friends feel they could no more torment a wounded soldier, than worry Buntingford--if they could help it. Then there are other facts that no one knows unless they've worked in Philip's office, where all the men clerks and all the women typists just adore him! I happen to know a good deal about it. I could tell you things--" "For Heaven's sake, don't!" cried Helena impatiently. "What does it matter? He may be a saint--with seven haloes--for those that don't cross him. But _I_ want my freedom!"--a white foot beat the ground impatiently--"and he stands in the way." "Freedom to compromise yourself with a scoundrel like Donald! What _can_ you know about such a man--compared with what Philip knows?" "That's just it--I _want_ to know--" said Helena in her most stubborn voice. "This is a world, now, in which we've all got to know,--both the bad and the good of it. No more taking it on trust from other people! Let us learn it for ourselves." "Helena!--you're quite mad!" said the young man, exasperated.