"That we should never do! We were simply born to dislike each other."

"I never heard anything so unreasonable!" said Buntingford warmly.

"Cynthia is a very good creature, and can be excellent company."

Helena gave a shrug.

"What does all that matter?" she said slowly--"when one has instincts--and intuitions. No!--don't let's talk any more about Lady Cynthia. But--there's something--please, Cousin Philip--I want to say--I may as well say it now."

He looked at her rather astonished, and, dimly as he saw her in the shadow they had just entered, it seemed to him that her aspect had changed.

"What is it? I hope nothing serious."

"Yes--it is serious, to me. I hate apologizing!--I always have."

"My dear Helena!--why should you apologize? For goodness' sake, don't!

Think better of it."

"I've got to do it," she said firmly, "Cousin Philip, you were quite right about that man, Jim Donald, and I was quite wrong. He's a beast, and I loathe the thought of having danced with him--there!--I'm sorry!"

She held out her hand.

Buntingford was supremely touched, and could not for the moment find a jest wherewith to disguise it.

"Thank you!" he said quietly, at last. "Thank you, Helena. That was very nice of you." And with a sudden movement he stooped and kissed the wet and rather quivering hand he held. At the same moment, the searchlight which had been travelling about the pond, lighting up one boat after another to the amusement of the persons in them, and of those watching from the shore, again caught the boat in which sat Buntingford and Helena. Both figures stood sharply out. Then the light had travelled on, and Helena had hastily withdrawn her hand.

She fell back on the cushions of the stern seat, vexed with her own agitation. She had described herself truly. She was proud, and it was hard for her to "climb down." But there was much else in the mixed feeling that possessed her. There seemed, for one thing, to be a curious happiness in it; combined also with a renewed jealousy for an independence she might have seemed to be giving away. She wanted to say--"Don't misunderstand me!--I'm not really giving up anything vital--I mean all the same to manage my life in my own way." But it was difficult to say it in the face of the coatless man opposite, of whose house she had become practically mistress, and who had changed all his personal modes of life to suit hers. Her eyes wandered to the gay scene of the house and its gardens, with its Watteau-ish groups of young men and maidens, under the night sky, its light and music. All that had been done, to give her pleasure, by a man who had for years conspicuously shunned society, and whose life in the old country house, before her advent, had been, as she had come to know, of the quietest. She bent forward again, impulsively:

"Cousin Philip!--I'm enjoying this party enormously--it's awfully, awfully good of you--but I don't want you to do it any more--"

"Do what, Helena?"

"Please, I can get along without any more week-ends, or parties. You--you spoil me!"

"Well--we're going up to London, aren't we, soon? But I daresay you're right"--his tone grew suddenly grave. "While we dance, there is a terrible amount of suffering going on in the world."

"You mean--after the war?"

He nodded. "Famine everywhere--women and children dying--half a dozen bloody little wars. And here at home we seem to be on the brink of civil war."

"We oughtn't to be amusing ourselves at all!--that's the real truth of it," said Helena with gloomy decision. "But what are we to do--women, I mean? They told me at the hospital yesterday they get rid of their last convalescents next week. What _is_ there for me to do? If I were a factory girl, I should be getting unemployment benefit. My occupation's gone--such as it was--it's not my fault!"

"Marry, my dear child,--and bring up children," said Buntingford bluntly.

"That's the chief duty of Englishwomen just now."

Helena flushed and said nothing. They drifted nearer to the bank, and Helena perceived, at the end of a little creek, a magnificent group of yew trees, of which the lower branches were almost in the water. Behind them, and to the side of them, through a gap in the wood, the moonlight found its way, but they themselves stood against the faint light, superbly dark, and impenetrable, black water at their feet. Buntingford pointed to them.

"They're fine, aren't they? This lake of course is artificial, and the park was only made out of arable land a hundred years ago. I always imagine these trees mark some dwelling-house, which has disappeared. They used to be my chief haunt when I was a boy. There are four of them, extraordinarily interwoven. I made a seat in one of them. I could see everything and everybody on the lake, or in the garden; and nobody could see me. I once overheard a proposal!"

"Eavesdropper!" laughed Helena. "Shall we land?--and go and look at them?"

She gave a touch to the rudder. Then a shout rang out from the landing-stage on the other side of the water.

"Ah, that's Geoffrey," said Buntingford. "And I must really get back to the house--to see people off."

With a little vigorous rowing they were soon across the lake. Helena sat silent. She did not want Geoffrey--she did not want to reach the land--she had been happy on the water--why should things end?

Geoffrey reported that all was well with Lady Georgina, she had gone home, and then stepping into the boat as Buntingford stepped out, he began to push off.

"Isn't it rather late?" began Helena in a hesitating voice, half rising from her seat. "I promised Peter a supper dance."

Geoffrey turned to look at her.

"Nobody's gone in to supper yet. Shall I take you back?"

There was something in his voice which meant that this _tete-a-tete_ had been promised him. Helena resigned herself. But that she would rather have landed was very evident to her companion, who had been balked of half his chance already by Lady Georgina. Why did elderly persons liable to faint come to dances?--that was what he fiercely wanted to know as he pulled out into the lake.

Helena was very quiet. She seemed tired, or dreamy. Instinctively Geoffrey lost hold on his own purpose. Something warned him to go warily.

By way of starting conversation he began to tell her of his own adventure on the lake--of the dumb woman among the trees, whom he had seen and spoken to, without reply. Helena was only moderately interested. It was some village woman passing through the wood, she supposed. Very likely the searchlight frightened her, and she knew she had no business there in June when there were young pheasants about--

"Nobody's started preserving again yet--" put in Geoffrey.

"Old Fenn told me yesterday that there were lots of wild ones," said Helena languidly. "So there'll be something to eat next winter."

"Are you tired, Helena?"

"Not at all," she said, sitting up suddenly. "What were we talking about?--oh, pheasants. Do you think we really shall starve next winter, Geoffrey, as the Food Controller says?"

"I don't much care!" said French.

Helena bent forward.

"Now, you're cross with me, Geoffrey! Don't be cross! I think I really am tired. I seem to have danced for hours." The tone was childishly plaintive, and French was instantly appeased. The joy of being with her--alone--returned upon him in a flood.

"Well, then, rest a little. Why should you go back just yet? Isn't it jolly out here?"

"Lovely," she said absently--"but I promised Peter."

"That'll be all right. We'll just go across and back."

There was a short silence--long enough to hear the music from the house, and the distant voices of the dancers. A little northwest wind was creeping over the lake, and stirring the scents of the grasses and sedge-plants on its banks. Helena looked round to see in what direction they were going.

"Ah!--you see that black patch, Geoffrey?"

"Yes--it was near there I saw my ghost--or village woman--or lady's maid--whatever you like to call it."

"It was a lady's maid, I think," said Helena decidedly. "They have a way of getting lost. Do you mind going there?"--she pointed--"I want to explore it."

He pulled a stroke which sent the boat towards the yews; while she repeated Buntingford's story of the seat.