"Dear Peter! But can't you understand that I don't want to commit myself just yet? I want to have my life to myself a bit. I'm like the miners and the railway men. I'm full of unrest! I can't and won't settle down just yet. I want to look at things--the world's like a great cinema show just now--everything passing so quick you can hardly take breath. I want to sample it where I please. I want to dance--and talk--and make experiments." "Well--marrying me would be an experiment," said Peter stoutly. "I vow you'd never regret it, Helena!" "But I can't vow that you wouldn't! Let me alone, Peter. I suppose some time I shall quiet down. It doesn't matter if I break my own heart. But I won't take the responsibility of anybody else's heart just yet." "Well, of course, that means you're not in love with anybody. You'd soon chuck all that nonsense if you were." The young, despairing voice thrilled her. It was all experience--life--drama--this floating over summer water--with a beautiful youth, whose heart seemed to be fluttering in her very hands. But she was only thrilled intellectually--as a spectator. Peter would soon get over it. She would be very kind to him, and let him down easily. They drifted silently a little. Then Peter said abruptly: "Well, at least, Helena, you might promise me not to dance with Jim Donald again!" "Peter--my promises of that kind--are worth nothing! ... I think it's getting late--we ought to be going home!" And she gave the rudder a turn for the shore. He unwillingly complied, and after rowing through the shadow of the woods, they emerged on a moonlit slope of lawn, where was the usual landing-place. Two persons who had been strolling along the edge of the water approached them. "Who is that with Buntingford?" asked Dale. "My new chaperon. Aren't you sorry for her?" "I jolly well am!" cried Peter. "She'll have a dog's life!" "That's very rude of you, Peter. You may perhaps be surprised to hear that I like her very much. She's a little dear--and I'm going to be awfully good to her." "Which means, of course, that she'll never dare to cross you!" "Peter, don't be unkind! Dear Peter--make it up! I do want to be friends. There's just time for you to say something nice!" For his vigorous strokes were bringing them rapidly to the bank. "Oh, what's the good of talking!" said the boy impatiently. "I shall be friends, of course--take what you fling me. I can't do anything else." Helena blew him a kiss, to which he made no response. "All right!--I'll bring you in!" said Lord Buntingford from the shore. He dragged the boat up on the sandy edge, and offered a hand to Helena. She stumbled out, and would have fallen into the shallow water but for his sudden grip upon her. "That was stupid of me!" she said, vexed with herself. He made no reply. It was left to Mrs. Friend to express a hope that she had not sprained her foot.