“Yes,” said Helena reflectively.  “Of course I see that.  It’s awkward.  I suppose you promised and vowed a great many things—­like one’s godmothers and godfathers?”

“No, I didn’t promise anything—­except that I would go out with you, make myself useful to you, if I could—­and help you with foreign languages.”

“Goody,” said Helena.  “Do you really know French—­and German?” The tone was incredulous.  “I wish I did.”

“Well, I was two years in France, and a year and a half in Germany when I was a girl.  My parents wanted me to be a governess.”

“And then you married?”

“Yes—­just the year before the war.”

“And your husband was killed?” The tone was low and soft.  Mrs. Friend gave a mute assent.  Suddenly Helena laid an arm round the little woman’s neck.

“I want you to be friends with me—­will you?  I hated the thought of a chaperon—­I may as well tell you frankly.  I thought I should probably quarrel with you in a week.  That was before I arrived.  Then when I saw you, I suddenly felt—­’I shall like her!  I’m glad she’s here—­I shan’t mind telling her my affairs.’  I suppose it was because you looked so—­well, so meek and mild—­so different from me—­as though a puff would blow you away.  One can’t account for those things, can one?  Do tell me your Christian name!  I won’t call you by it—­if you don’t like it.”

“My name is Lucy,” said Mrs. Friend faintly.  There was something so seductive in the neighbourhood of the girl’s warm youth and in the new sweetness of her voice that she could not make any further defence of her “dignity.”

“I might have guessed Lucy.  It’s just like you,” said the girl triumphantly.  “Wordsworth’s Lucy—­do you remember her?—­’A violet by a mossy stone’—­That’s you exactly.  I adore Wordsworth.  Do you care about poetry?”

The eager eyes looked peremptorily into hers.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Friend shyly—­“I’m very fond of some things.  But you’d think them old-fashioned!”

“What—­Byron?—­Shelley?  They’re never old-fashioned!”

“I never read much of them.  But—­I love Tennyson—­and Mrs. Browning.”

Helena made a face—­

“Oh, I don’t care a hang for her.  She’s so dreadfully pious and sentimental.  I laughed till I cried over ‘Aurora Leigh.’  But now—­French things!  If you lived all that time in France, you must have read French poetry.  Alfred de Musset?—­Madame de Noailles?”

Mrs. Friend shook her head.

“We went to lectures.  I learnt a great deal of Racine—­a little Victor Hugo—­and Rostand—­because the people I boarded with took me to ’Cyrano’!”

“Ah, Rostand—­” cried Helena, springing up.  “Well, of course he’s vieux jeu now.  The best people make mock of him.  Julian does.  I don’t care—­he gives me thrills down my back, and I love him.  But then panache means a good deal to me.  And Julian doesn’t care a bit.  He despises people who talk about glory and honour—­and that kind of thing.  Well—­Lucy—­”