old, and to want to know—­a hundred things!  It had taken her five months, however, to make up her mind; and then at last she had gone to an agency—­the only way she knew—­and had braved the cold and purely selfish wrath of the household she was leaving.  And now here she was in Lord Buntingford’s house—­Miss Helena Pitstone’s chaperon.  As she stood before her looking-glass, fastening her little black dress with shaking fingers, the first impression of Helena’s personality was upon her, running through her, like wine to the unaccustomed.  She supposed that now girls were all like this—­all such free, wild, uncurbed creatures, a law to themselves.  One moment she repeated that she was a fool to have come; and the next, she would not have found herself back in Lancaster Gate for the world.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, in the adjoining room, Helena was putting on a tea-gown, a white and silver “confection,” with a little tail like a fish, and a short skirt tapering down to a pair of slim legs and shapely feet.  After all her protestations, she had allowed the housemaid to help her unpack, and when the dress was on she had sent Mary flying down to the drawing-room to bring up some carnations she had noticed there.  When these had been tucked into her belt, and the waves of her brown hair had been somehow pinned and coiled into a kind of order, and she had discovered and put on her mother’s pearls, she was pleased with herself, or rather with as much of herself as she could see in the inadequate looking-glass on the toilet-table.  A pier-glass from somewhere was of course the prime necessity, and must be got immediately.  Meanwhile she had to be content with seeing herself in the eyes of the housemaid, who was clearly dazzled by her appearance.

Then there were a few minutes before dinner, and she ran along the passage to Mrs. Friend’s room.

“May I come in?  Oh, let me tie that for you?” And before Mrs. Friend could interpose, the girl’s nimble fingers had tied the narrow velvet carrying a round locket which was her chaperon’s only ornament.  Drawing back a little, she looked critically at the general effect.  Mrs. Friend flushed, and presently started in alarm, when Helena took up the comb lying on the dressing-table.

“What are you going to do?”

“Only just to alter your hair a little.  Do you mind?  Do let me.  You look so nice in black.  But your hair is too tight.”

Mrs. Friend stood paralysed, while with a few soft touches Helena applied the comb.

“Now, isn’t that nice!  I declare it’s charming!  Now look at yourself.  Why should you make yourself look dowdy?  It’s all very well—­but you can’t be much older than I am!”

And dancing round her victim, Helena effected first one slight improvement and then another in Mrs. Friend’s toilette, till the little woman, standing in uneasy astonishment before the glass to which Helena had dragged her, plucked up courage at last to put an end to the proceedings.