“But you asked him to stay in Lord Buntingford’s house—­and without consulting—­”

“Well—­and it’s going to be my house, too, for two years—­if I can possibly bear it.  When Mummy begged me, I told Buntingford my conditions.  And he’s broken them!”

And standing still, the tempestuous creature drew herself to her full height, her arms rigid by her side—­a tragic-comic figure in the dim illumination of the two guttering candles.

Mrs. Friend attempted a diversion.

“Who else is coming for the week-end?”

Instantly Helena’s mood dissolved in laughter.  She came to perch herself on the arm of Mrs. Friend’s chair.

“There—­now let’s forget my tiresome guardian.  I promised to tell you about my ‘boys.’  Well, there are two of them coming—­and Geoffrey French, besides a nephew of Buntingford’s, who’ll have this property and most of the money some day, always supposing this tyrant of mine doesn’t marry, which of course any reasonable man would.  Well—­there’s Peter Dale—­the dearest, prettiest little fellow you ever saw.  He was aide-de-camp to Lord Brent in the war—­very smart—­up to everything.  He’s demobbed, and has gone into the City.  Horribly rich already, and will now, of course, make another pile.  He dreadfully wants to marry me—­but—­” she shook her head with emphasis—­“No!—­it wouldn’t do.  He tries to kiss me sometimes.  I didn’t mind it at first.  But I’ve told him not to do it again.  Then there’s Julian—­Julian Horne—­Balliol—­awfully clever”—­she checked off the various items on her fingers—­“as poor as a rat—­a Socialist, of course—­they all are, that kind—­but a real one—­not like Geoffrey French, who’s a sham, though he is in the House, and has joined the Labour party.  You see”—­her tone grew suddenly serious—­“I don’t reckon Geoffrey French among my boys.”

“He’s too old?”

“Oh, he’s not so very old.  But—­I don’t think he likes me very much—­and I’m not sure whether I like him.  He’s good fun, however—­and he rags Julian Horne splendidly.  That’s one of his chief functions—­and another is, to take a hand in my education—­when I allow him—­and when Julian isn’t about.  They both tell me what to read.  Julian tells me to read history, and gives me lists of books.  Geoffrey talks economics—­and philosophy—­and I adore it—­he talks so well.  He gave me Bergson the other day.  Have you ever read any of him?”

“Never,” said Mrs. Friend, bewildered.  “Who is he?”

Helena’s laugh woke the echoes of the room.  But she checked it at once.

“I don’t want him to think we’re plotting,” she said in a stage-whisper, looking round her.  “If I do anything I want to spring it on him!”

“Dear Miss Pitstone—­please understand!—­I can’t help you to plot against Lord Buntingford.  You must see I can’t.  He’s my employer and your guardian.  If I helped you to do what he disapproves I should simply be doing a dishonourable thing.”