The girl looked up coolly.  Mrs. Friend felt as though she had been struck.

“But your mother!” she said involuntarily.

“Oh, I know, that’s what most people would say.  But the question is, what’s reasonable.  Well, I wasn’t reasonable, and here I am.  But I make my conditions.  We are not to be more than four months in the year in this old hole”—­she looked round her in not unkindly amusement at the bare old-fashioned room; “we are to have four or five months in London, at least; and when travelling abroad gets decent again, we are to go abroad—­Rome, perhaps, next winter.  And I am jolly well to ask my friends here, or in town—­male and female—­and Cousin Philip promised to be nice to them.  He said, of course, ‘Within limits.’  But that we shall see.  I’m not a pauper, you know.  My trustees pay Lord Buntingford whatever I cost him, and I shall have a good deal to spend.  I shall have a horse—­and perhaps a little motor.  The chauffeur here is a fractious idiot.  He has done that Rolls-Royce car of Cousin Philip’s balmy, and cut up quite rough when I spoke to him about it.”

“Done it what?” said Mrs. Friend faintly.

“Balmy.  Don’t you know that expression?” Helena, on the floor with her hands under her knees, watched her companion’s looks with a grin.  “It’s our language now, you know—­English—­the language of us young people.  The old ones have got to learn it, as we speak it!  Well, what do you think of Cousin Philip?”

Mrs. Friend roused herself.

“I’ve only seen him for half an hour.  But he was very kind.”

“And isn’t he good-looking?” said the girl before her, with enthusiasm.  “I just adore that combination of black hair and blue eyes—­don’t you?  But he isn’t by any means as innocent as he looks.”

“I never said—­”

“No.  I know you didn’t,” said Helena serenely; “but you might have—­and he isn’t innocent a bit.  He’s as complex as you make ’em.  Most women are in love with him, except me!” The brown eyes stared meditatively out of window.  “I suppose I could be if I tried.  But he doesn’t attract me.  He’s too old.”

“Old?” repeated Mrs. Friend, with astonishment.

“Well, I don’t mean he’s decrepit!  But he’s forty-four if he’s a day—­more than double my age.  Did you notice that he’s a little lame?”

“No!”

“He is.  It’s very slight—­an accident, I believe—­somewhere abroad.  But they wouldn’t have him for the Army, and he was awfully cut up.  He used to come and sit with Mummy every day and pour out his woes.  I suppose she was the only person to whom he ever talked about his private affairs—­he knew she was safe.  Of course you know he is a widower?”

Mrs. Friend knew nothing.  But she was vaguely surprised.