Mrs. Friend gasped.  The modern young woman was becoming altogether too much for her.  She could only repeat foolishly—­“ran away?”

“Yes, ran away.  There was no harm done.  Sir Luke Preston—­that’s the husband—­followed them and caught them—­and made her go back with him.  But Donald didn’t mean any mischief.  She’d quarrelled with Sir Luke—­she’s an empty-headed little fluffy thing.  I know her a little—­and she dared Donald to run away with her—­for a lark.  So he took her on.  He didn’t mean anything horrid.  I don’t believe he’s that sort.  They were going down to his yacht at Southampton—­there were several other friends of his on the yacht—­and they meant to give Sir Luke a fright—­just show him that he couldn’t bully her as he had been doing—­being sticky and stupid about her friends, just as Cousin Philip wants to be about mine—­and quarrelling about her dress-bills—­and a lot of things.  Well, that’s all!  What’s there in that?”

And the girl sat up straight, dropping her slim, white feet, while her great eyes challenged her companion to say a word in defence of her guardian.  Mrs. Friend’s head was turning.

“But it was surely wrong and foolish—­” she began.  Helena interrupted her.

“I daresay it was,” she said impatiently, “but that’s not my affair.  It’s Lord Donald’s.  I’m not responsible for him.  But he’s done nothing that I know of to make me cut him—­and I won’t!  He told me all about it quite frankly.  I said I’d stick by him—­and I will.”

“And Sir Luke Preston is a friend of Lord Buntingford’s?”

“Yes—­” said Helena unwillingly—­“I suppose he is.  I didn’t know.  Perhaps I wouldn’t have asked Donald if I’d known.  But I did ask him, and he accepted.  And now Buntingford’s going to insult him publicly.  And that I won’t stand—­I vow I won’t!  It’s insulting me too!”

And springing up, she began a stormy pacing of the room, her white gown falling back from her neck and throat, and her hair floating behind her.  Mrs. Friend had begun to collect herself.  In the few hours she had passed under Lord Buntingford’s roof she seemed to herself to have been passing through a forcing house.  Qualities she had never dreamed of possessing or claiming she must somehow show, or give up the game.  Unless she could understand and get hold of this wholly unexpected situation, as Helena presented it, she might as well re-pack her box, and order the village fly for departure.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” she said presently, as the white skirts swept past her.

“Mind!  Not a bit.  What do you want to know?”

“Are you in love with Lord Donald?”

Helena laughed.

“If I were, do you think I’d let him run away with Lady Preston or anybody else?  Not at all!  Lord Donald’s just one of the men I like talking to.  He amuses me.  He’s very smart.  He knows everybody.  He’s no worse than anybody else.  He did all sorts of plucky things in the war.  I don’t ask Buntingford to like him, of course.  He isn’t his sort.  But he really might let me alone!”