“You’re very much mistaken, Bubbles!  Lionel would have never forgiven you—­or me.  He attaches great importance to these people; Helen Brabazon was a great friend of his poor wife’s.”  She hesitated, and then said rather awkwardly:  “I sometimes wish you liked him better; he’s a good friend, Bubbles.”

“I should think more a bad enemy than a good friend,” muttered the girl, in so low a voice that her aunt hardly caught the ungracious words.

That was all—­but that was enough.  Blanche told herself that she had now amply fulfilled the promise she had made to Lionel Varick when the two had stood speeding their parting guest this morning from Wyndfell Hall.  Even quite at the end Mr. Burnaby had been barely civil.  He seemed to think that there had been some kind of conspiracy against him the night before; and as they watched the car go over the moat bridge, Varick had muttered:  “I wouldn’t have had this happen for a thousand pounds!” But he had recovered his good temper, and even apologized to Blanche for having felt so much put out by the action of a cantankerous old man.

The others were now all streaming into the hall, and Bubbles would hardly allow the good-natured Sir Lyon and Bill Donnington to finish their cigarettes before she shooed them out to cut down some ivy.  Varick looked annoyed when he heard that the decorations in the church were not yet finished.  “Can’t we bribe some of the servants to go down and do them?” he asked.  “It seems a shame that you and Donnington should have to go off there again in the cold and darkness.”

But in her own way Bubbles had almost as strong a will as had her host.  She always knew what she wanted to do, and generally managed to do it.  “I would much rather finish the work myself, and I think Bill would rather come too,” she said coolly.

So once more the little donkey-cart was loaded up with holly and trails of ivy, and the two set off amid the good-natured comments and chaff of the rest of the party.  James Tapster alone looked sulky and annoyed.  He wondered how a bright, amusing girl like Bubbles Dunster could stand the company of such a commonplace young man as was Bill Donnington.

As they reached the short stretch of open road which separated Wyndfell Hall from the church, Bubbles felt suddenly how cold it was.

“I think we shall have snow to-morrow,” said Donnington, looking round at his companion.  He could only just see her little face in the twilight, and when they finally passed through the porch in the glorious old church, it seemed, for the first few moments, pitch-dark.

“I’ll tell you what I like best about this church,” said the girl suddenly.

“For my part,” said Donnington simply, “I like everything about it.”

He struck a match, and after a few minutes of hard work, managed to light several of the hanging oil lamps.

“What I like best,” went on Bubbles, “are the animals up there.”