“Don’t let’s take anybody!” said the boy.  “And anyway Horne’s a nuisance just now.  He talks you dead with strikes—­and nationalization—­and labour men—­and all that rot.  Can’t we ever let it alone?  I want to talk to you, Helena.  I say, you are ripping in that dress!  You’re just divine, Helena!” The girl laughed, her sweetest, most rippling laugh.

“Go on like that, Peter.  You can’t think how nice it sounds—­especially after Geoffrey’s been lecturing for all he’s worth.”

“Lecturing?  Oh well, if it comes to that, I’ve got my grievance too, Helena.  We’ll have it out, when I’ve found the boat.”

“Forewarned!” said Helena, still laughing.  “Perhaps I won’t come.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” said the boy confidently.  “I believe you know perfectly well what it’s about.  You’ve got a guilty conscience, Miss Helena!”

Helena said nothing, till they had pushed the boat out from the reeds and the water-lilies, and she was sitting with the steering ropes in her hands opposite a boy in his shirt sleeves, with the head and face of a cherub, and the spare frame of an athlete, who was devouring her with his eyes.

“Are you quite done with the Army, Peter?”

“Quite.  Got out a month ago.  You come to me, Helena, if you want any advice about foreign loans—­eh?  I can tell you a thing or two.”

“Are you going to be very rich?”

“Well, I’m pretty rich already,” said the boy candidly.  “It seems beastly to be wanting more.  But my uncles would shove me into the Bank.  I couldn’t help it.”

“You’ll never look so nice as you did in your khaki, Peter.  What have you done with all your ribbons?”

“What, the decorations?  Oh, they’re kicking about somewhere.”

“You’re not to let your Victoria Cross kick about, as you call it,” said Helena severely.  “By the way, Peter, you’ve never told me yet—­Oh, I saw the bit in the Times.  But I want you to tell me about it.  Won’t you?”

She bent forward, all softness, her beautiful eyes on her companion.

“No!” said Peter with energy—­“never!”

She considered him.

“Was it so awful?” she asked under her breath.

“For God’s sake, don’t ask questions!” said the boy angrily.  “You know I want to forget it.  I shall never be quite right till I do forget it.”

She was silent.  It was his twin brother he had tried to save—­staggering back through a British barrage with the wounded man on his shoulders—­only to find, as he stumbled into the trench, that he had been carrying the dead.  He himself had spent six months in hospital from the effects of wounds and shock.  He had emerged to find himself a V. V. and A. D. C. to his Army Commander; and apparently as gay and full of fun as before.  But his adoring mother and sisters knew very well that there were sore spots in Peter.

Helena realized that she had touched one.  She bent forward presently, and laid her own hand on one of the hands that were handling the sculls.