“Two things, I imagine.  First that she was the better man of us all, that day of the Dansworth riot.  She could drive my big car, and none of the rest of us could!  That seemed to put her right with us all.  And secondly—­the reports of that abominable trial.  She told me so.  I only hope she didn’t read much of it!”

They had just passed the corner of the house, and come out on the sloping lawn of Beechmark, with the lake, and the wood beyond it.  All that had happened behind that dark screen of yew, on the distant edge of the water, came rushing back on Philip’s imagination, so that he fell silent.  Cynthia on her side was thinking of the moment when she came down to the edge of the lake to carry off Geoffrey French, and saw Buntingford and Helena push off into the puckish rays of the searchlight.  She tasted again the jealous bitterness of it—­and the sense of defeat by something beyond her fighting—­the arrogance of Helena’s young beauty.  Philip was not in love with Helena; that she now knew.  So far she, Cynthia, had marvellously escaped the many chances that might have undone her.  But if Helena came back?

Meanwhile there were some uneasy thoughts at the back of Philip’s mind; and some touching and tender recollections which he kept sacred to himself.  Helena’s confession and penitence—­there, on that still water—­how pretty they were, how gracious!  Nor could he ever forget her sweetness, her pity on that first tragic evening.  Geoffrey’s alarms were absurd.  Yet when he thought of merely reproducing the situation as it had existed before the night of the ball, something made him hesitate.  And besides, how could he reproduce it?  All his real mind was now absorbed in this overwhelming problem of his son; of the helpless, appealing creature to whose aid the whole energies of his nature had been summoned.

He walked back some way with Cynthia, talking of the boy, with an intensity of hope that frightened her.

“Don’t, or don’t be too certain—­yet!” she pleaded.  “We have only just seen the first sign—­the first flicker.  If it were all to vanish again!”

“Could I bear it?” he said, under his breath—­“Could I?”

“Anyway, you’ll let me keep him—­a little longer?”

She spoke very softly and sweetly.

“If your kindness really wishes it,” he said, rather reluctantly.  “But what does Georgina say?”

“Georgina is just as keen as I am,” said Cynthia boldly.  “Don’t you see how fond she is of him already?”

Buntingford could not truthfully say that he had seen any signs on Georgina’s part, so far, of more than a decent neutrality in the matter.  Georgina was a precisian; devoted to order, and in love with rules.  The presence of the invalid boy, his nurse, and his teacher, must upset every rule and custom of the little house.  Could she really put up with it?  In general, she made the impression upon Philip of a very wary cat, often apparently asleep, but with her claws ready.  He felt uncomfortable; but Cynthia had her way.