"Why do you let her smoke--and paint--and _swear_--I declare I heard her swear!" she said in Buntingford's ear, as the dressing-bell rang, and he was escorting her to the house. "And mark my words, Philip--men may be amused by that kind of girl, but they won't marry her." Buntingford laughed. "As Helena's guardian I'm not particularly anxious about that!" "Ah, no doubt, she tells you people propose to her--but is it true?" snapped Lady Mary. "You imagine that Helena tells me of her proposals?" said Buntingford, wondering. "My dear Philip, don't pose! Isn't that the special function of a guardian?" "It may be. But, if so, Helena has never given me the chance of performing it." "I told you so! Men will flirt with her, but they _don't_ propose to her!" said Lady Mary triumphantly. Buntingford, smiling, let her have the last word, as he asked Mrs. Friend to show her to her room. Meanwhile the gardens were deserted, save for a couple of gardeners and an electrician, who were laying some wires for the illumination of the rose-garden in front of the drawing-room, and Geoffrey French, who was in a boat, lazily drifting across the pond, and reading a volume of poems by a friend which he had brought down with him. The evening was fast declining; and from the shadow of the deep wood which bordered the western edge of the pond he looked out on the sunset glow as it climbed the eastern hill, transfiguring the ridge, and leaving a rich twilight in the valley below. The tranquillity of the water, the silence of the woods, the gentle swaying of the boat, finally wooed him from his book, which after all he had only taken up as a protection from tormenting thoughts. Had he--had he--any chance with Helena? A month before he would have scornfully denied that he was in love with her. And now--he had actually confessed his plight to Mrs. Friend! As he lay floating between the green vault above, and the green weedy depths below, his thoughts searched the five weeks that lay between him and that first week-end when he had scolded Helena for her offences. It seemed to him that his love for her had first begun that day of the Dansworth riot. She had provoked and interested him before that--but rather as a raw self-willed child--a "flapper" whose extraordinary beauty gave her a distinction she had done nothing to earn. But every moment in that Dansworth day was clear in memory:--the grave young face behind the steering-wheel, the perfect lips compressed, the eyes intent upon their task, the girl's courage and self-command. Still more the patient Helena who waited for him at the farm--the grateful exultant look when he said "Come"--and every detail of the scene in Dansworth:--Helena with her most professional air, driving through soldiers and police, Helena helping to carry and place the two wounded men, and that smiling "good-bye" she had thrown him as she drove away with Buntingford beside her.