Thus was Helen Brabazon for the moment left out in the cold.  She turned, and opening a prettily bound book which was on a table close to her elbow, began to read it.

Varick looked dubiously at his silent guest.  Leaning again towards Miss Farrow he whispered:  “I don’t know what one does on such occasions, Blanche.  Ought not we to have a round game or something?”

She smiled into his keen, good-looking face.  “You are a baby!  Or are you only pretending, Lionel?  Everyone’s quite happy; why should we do anything?”

“As a matter of fact, both Mr. Burnaby and Miss Burnaby spoke before dinner as if they expected to be entertained in some way.”

“I’ll think something out,” she said a little wearily.  “Now go and do your duty—­talk to Miss Brabazon!”

She got up and moved slowly towards the fireplace, telling herself the while, with a certain irritation, that Lionel was not showing his usual alert intelligence.  It was all very well to invite this young woman who had been so kind to poor Milly; and the fact that she and her tiresome old uncle and aunt were, if Lionel was right, very wealthy, was not without a certain interest.  But still—!

Blanche, with a certain grim, inward smile, remembered a story she had thought at the time rather funny.  That of a lady who had said to her husband, “Oh, do come and see them, they are so very rich.”  And he had answered, “My dear, I would if it were catching!”

Unfortunately, Blanche Farrow had only too much reason to know that wealth is not catching.  Also, to one with her brilliant, acute mind, there was something peculiarly irritating in the sight of very rich people who didn’t know how to use their wealth, either to give themselves, or others, pleasure.  Such people, she felt sure, were Mr. and Miss Burnaby—­and doubtless, also, their heiress, Helen Brabazon.

“Bubbles!” she exclaimed imperiously, under her breath.  “Come here for a minute.”  And Bubbles, with a touch of reluctance, got up and left the three men to whom she was talking.

As she came towards her, her aunt was struck by the girl’s look of ill-health and unease.

“I wish you could think of something that would stir us all up,” she said in a low voice.  And then, in a lower voice still, for her niece was now close to her, “The Burnabys look the sort of people who would enjoy a parlour game,” she said rather crossly.

And then, all of a sudden, Bubbles gave a queer little leap into the air.  “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.  “Let’s hold a seance!”

“A seance?” repeated Blanche Farrow in a dubious tone.  “I don’t think Miss Burnaby would enjoy that at all.”

“Oh, but she would!”—­Bubbles spoke confidently.  “Didn’t you hear her at dinner?  She was telling Sir Lyon about some friend of hers who’s become tremendously keen about that sort of thing.  To tell you the truth, Blanche” (these two had never been on very formal terms together, and in a way Bubbles was much fonder of her aunt than her aunt was of her)—­“To tell you the truth, Blanche,” she repeated, “ever since I arrived here I’ve told myself that it would be rather amusing to try something of the kind.  It’s a strange old house; there’s a funny kind of atmosphere about it; I felt it the moment I arrived.”