“You mean”—­she said abruptly—­“that I really ought to go at once—­to-morrow.”

“Wouldn’t it be best?  It troubles me to think of you here—­under the shadow—­of this thing.”

“I see!—­I see!  All right.  You are going to London to-morrow morning?” She had risen, and was moving towards the door.

“Yes, I shall go to the Rectory first for news.  And then on to the station.”

She paused a moment.

“And if—­if she—­I don’t know what to call her—­if she lives?”

“Well, then—­I must be free,” he said, gravely; adding immediately—­“She passed for fifteen years after she left me as the wife of an Italian I used to know.  It would be very quickly arranged.  I should provide for her—­and keep my boy.  But all that is uncertain.”

“Yes, I understand.”  She held out her hand.  “Cousin Philip—­I am awfully sorry for you.  I—­I realized—­somehow—­only after I’d come down here—­that you must have had—­things in your life—­to make you unhappy.  And you’ve been so nice—­so awfully nice to me!  I just want to thank you—­with all my heart.”

And before he could prevent her, she had seized his hands and kissed them.  Then she rushed to the door, turning to show him a face between tears and laughter.

“There!—­I’ve paid you back!”

And with that she vanished.

Helena was going blindly through the hall, towards her own room, when Peter Dale emerged from the shadows.  He caught her as she passed.

“Let me have just a word, Helena!  You know, everything will be broken up here.  I only want to say my mother would just adore to have you for the season.  We’d all make it nice for you—­we’d be your slaves—­just let me wire to Mater to-morrow morning.”

“No, thank you, Peter.  Please—­please! don’t stop me!  I want to see Mrs. Friend.”

“Helena, do think of it!” he implored.

“No, I can’t.  It’s impossible!” she said, almost fiercely.  “Let me go, Peter!  Good-night!”

He stood, a picture of misery, at the foot of the stairs watching her run up.  Then at the top she turned, ran down a few steps again, kissed her hand to him, and vanished, the bright buckles on her shoes flashing along the gallery overhead.

But in the further corner of the gallery she nearly ran into the arms of Geoffrey French, who was waiting for her outside her room.

“Is it too late, Helena—­for me to have just a few words in your sitting-room?”

He caught hold of her.  The light just behind him showed him a tense and frowning Helena.

“Yes—­it is much too late!  I can’t talk now.”

“Only a few words?”

“No”—­she panted—­“no!—­Geoffrey, I shall hate you if you don’t let me go!”

It seemed to her that everybody was in league to stand between her and the one thing she craved for—­to be alone and in the dark.

She snatched her dress out of his grasp, and he fell back.