Blanche remained silent.  Bubbles’ words were making her feel curiously uneasy.  They threw a light on certain things which had puzzled her.

“Lionel Varick marked her down long ago,” went on Bubbles slowly.  “On the evening that she arrived I saw that he had quite made up his mind to marry her.  But as the days went on I began to hope that he wouldn’t succeed.”  She uttered these last words very, very seriously.

Her aunt looked at her, surprised at the feeling she threw into her voice.  As for Donnington, he was staring at her dumbly and, yes, angrily.  At last he said:  “And why shouldn’t Varick marry her, if they both like one another?”

“You wouldn’t understand if I were to tell you.  You’re too stupid and too good to understand.”

Donnington felt very much put out.  He did not mind being called stupid, but what on earth did Bubbles mean by saying he was too good?

“I’m sure Lionel’s dead wife has been haunting Helen,” went on Bubbles rapidly, “quite, quite sure of it.  And I’m glad she has!  I should be sorry for any nice girl—­for any woman, even a horrid woman—­to marry Lionel Varick.  There!  I’ve said my say, and now I shall for ever hold my peace.”

They both stared at her, astonished by the passion and energy with which she uttered the curious words.

Bill looked down at the girl, and, though he felt hurt and angry with her, his heart suddenly softened.  Bubbles looked very frail and tired lying there.

“Bill,” she said, “come here,” and he came, though not very willingly, closer to her.

She pulled him down.  “I only want to tell you that I love you,” she whispered, and his anger, his irritation, vanished like snow in the sun.

Blanche was already at the door.  She turned round.  “Well, I must be off now to see the chef, and to make all sorts of arrangements.  Sir Lyon is staying on—­rather unlike him to change his mind, but he’s done so—­at the last moment.”

“I wish I could get a few more days’ holiday,” said Bill ruefully.  “My number’s up this afternoon.”

The letters he had to write could go to blazes—­of course he meant to spend each of the precious minutes that remained in the next few hours with Bubbles!

“You’ll be able to escort old Miss Burnaby to town, for Helen’s staying on,” went on Blanche.

“Helen staying on?” exclaimed Bubbles.  “I’m glad of that!  Oh, and Sir Lyon’s staying on, too?”

She suddenly gave one of her funny, eerie little chuckles; but she made no other comment.

“Yes,” called out Blanche.  “And Dr. Panton’s going—­so I’ve a good many little things to see to.”

Bill sprang to the door, and opened it for her.

As it shut she heard Bubbles’ voice, and it was a voice Blanche Farrow hardly knew.  “Are you really sorry you’re going away from your little kid, Bill?”

Blanche sighed sharply.  After all, so she told herself, there is something to be said for love’s young dream.