“As for me,” said Dr. Panton, “I must leave this afternoon, worse luck!  But there it is.”  He turned to Varick.  “I’ve got an appointment in London to-morrow morning—­one I can’t put off.”

Donnington came in at last.  He looked radiant—­indeed, his look of happiness was in curious contrast to the lowering expression which now clouded Varick’s face.

“Bubbles is nearly well again!” he cried joyfully.  “She says she’ll get up to-morrow, doctor or no doctor!” He looked at Panton; then, turning to Blanche, in a lower tone:  “Also, she’s shown me the most wonderful letter from her father, written to her before Christmas.  I always thought he disliked me:  but he liked me from the very first time we met—­isn’t that strange?”

“Very strange,” said Blanche, smiling.

They all scattered after breakfast, but Miss Farrow noticed that Varick made a determined and successful attempt to carry off Helen Brabazon from Sir Lyon, who had obviously been lying in wait for her.

“What dogs in the manger men are!” she said to herself.  And then she remembered, with a little gasp of dismay, her mysterious appointment with Mark Gifford.  She knew him well enough to be sure that he would be in good time; but, even so, there was more than an hour to be got through somehow before she could start for Darnaston.

She went up to Bubbles’ room.  Yes, the girl looked marvellously better—­younger too, quite different!

There came a knock at the door while she was there, and Donnington came in.

“If you’d been wise,” said Bubbles, looking up at him, “you’d have made up to Helen Brabazon, Bill.  She’s like an apple, just ready to fall off the tree.”

“What do you mean?” asked Blanche.

“Just what I say.  She’s tremendously in love with love!”

“D’you really think so?”

(If so, Sir Lyon’s task would be an easy one.)

“I know it,” said Bubbles positively.  “I’ve made a close study of that girl.  I confess I didn’t like her at first, and I will tell you why, though I know it will shock Bill.”

“I’ve always liked Miss Brabazon,” he said stoutly, “why didn’t you like her, Bubbles?”

“Because when she arrived here I saw that she was in love with Lionel Varick.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said her aunt reprovingly.  “You know I don’t like that sort of joking.”

And as for Bill, he turned and walked towards the door.  “I’ve got some letters to write,” he said crossly.

“Don’t go away, Bill.  It isn’t a joke, Blanche—­and I’m going really to shock you now—­unless, of course, you’re only pretending to be shocked?”

“What d’you mean?” said Blanche.

“I think Helen fell in love with Lionel Varick before his wife died.”

Bill said sharply:  “I won’t have you say such disgusting things, Bubbles!” And he did indeed look disgusted.

“What a queer mind you’ve got,” said Bubbles reprovingly.  “I mean, of course, in quite a proper way; that is, without the poor girl knowing anything about it.  But I thing he knew it right enough.”