"Not at all. Pity she's so brown." "Yes, rather; but I say, Chum." "Hullo!" "I'll bet a dollar she squeezed your hand when you were coming away, eh?" "Never tell tales out of school," said Chumbley, slowly. "Squeezes of hands leave no impression, so they don't count. I didn't ask you if you squeezed Helen Perowne's hand." "I shouldn't mind if you did, old lad. Perhaps so; but don't bother, and pass me a match." Chumbley chuckled softly to himself; and after a time they finished their cigars and turned in, the lieutenant sleeping soundly, while the rest of the principal personages in this narrative were wakeful and tossing from side to side, perhaps the most restless being the successful beauty, Helen Perowne. VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY. THE RETURN PARTY. Mr Perowne's was acknowledged to be by far the best garden at the station; its favourable position--sloping, as it did, down to the river--prevented any approach to aridity, and as he had gone to the expense of getting three Chinese gardeners--men who were ready enough, if not to originate, to take up any suggested idea--the result was a charmingly-picturesque succession of smooth lawns and shady walks, sheltered by the choicest flowering trees the country produced. He spared no expense to make the garden attractive, and on the night of Helen's twenty-first birthday, when they gave a garden-party, the place, with its Chinese lanterns and illuminated summer-houses, had an effect that seemed to Grey Stuart the most lovely she had ever seen. "I quite envy you sometimes," she said, as Helen, in her calm assurance, kissed her and welcomed her in a patronising way; "surrounded as you are with luxuries, you ought to be very happy." "And yet I am not," said Helen, bitterly, and she turned to meet some fresh arrivals. "You've a deal to grumble about," said old Stuart, who had heard his daughter's words. "What's all this but show and tinsel? What's it worth? Bah!" Her father's words did not comfort her, for she felt very sore; and as she strolled with him down one of the paths she thought to herself that there was an old fable about a dog in a manger, and in her quiet, homely fashion, it seemed to her that Helen was playing that part. For she had, in her unselfish sorrow, seen that for some little time past Hilton was not happy in his love. Helen was playing with him, and he seemed to feel it bitterly, though he was too proud to show it; and she thought to herself, what would she not give to be able to whisper comfort to the young officer, and pour out for him the riches of her love--an impossibility, for in her way she was as proud as Helen herself. "Ah, Mr Stuart! How do, Miss Stuart?" drawled a voice just behind them. "Glad to see you both. I say, Miss Stuart, do you want a fellow to play cavalier? I'm quite at liberty. Mr Stuart, there's plenty of claret-cup, champagne, and cigars in the little pagoda, and it's nice and cool."