“Dear Peter!”

He bent impetuously, and kissed the hand before she could withdraw it.

“Don’t you play with me, Helena,” he said passionately.  “I’m not a child, though I look it ...  Now, then, let’s have it out.”

They had reached the middle of the pond, and were drifting across a moonlit pathway, on either side of which lay the shadow of deep woods, now impenetrably dark.  The star in Helena’s hair glittered in the light, and the face beneath it, robbed of its daylight colour, had become a study in black and white, subtler and more lovely than the real Helena.

“Why did you do it, Helena?” said Peter suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Why did you behave to me as you did, at the Arts Ball?  Why did you cut me, not once—­but twice—­three times—­for that beast Donald?”

Helena laughed.

“Now you’re beginning!” she said, as she lazily trailed her hand in the water.  “It’s really comic!”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that I’ve already quarrelled with Cousin Philip—­and Geoffrey—­about Lord Donald—­so if you insist on quarrelling too, I shall have no friends left.”

“Damn Donald!  It’s like his impudence to ask you to dance at all.  It made me sick to see you with him.  He’s the limit.  Well, but—­I’m not going to quarrel about Donald, Helena—­I’m not going to quarrel about anything.  I’m going to have my own say—­and you can’t escape this time—­you witch!”

Helena looked round the pond.

“I can swim,” she said tranquilly.

“I should jump in after you—­and we’d both go down together.  No, but—­listen to me, dear Helena!  Why won’t you marry me?  You say sometimes—­that you care for me a little.”

The boy’s tone faltered.

“Why won’t I marry you?  Perhaps because you ask me so often,” said Helena, laughing.  “Neglect me—­be rude to me—­cut me at a dance, and then see.”

“I couldn’t—­it matters too much.”

“Dear Peter!  But can’t you understand that I don’t want to commit myself just yet?  I want to have my life to myself a bit.  I’m like the miners and the railway men.  I’m full of unrest!  I can’t and won’t settle down just yet.  I want to look at things—­the world’s like a great cinema show just now—­everything passing so quick you can hardly take breath.  I want to sample it where I please.  I want to dance—­and talk—­and make experiments.”

“Well—­marrying me would be an experiment,” said Peter stoutly.  “I vow you’d never regret it, Helena!”

“But I can’t vow that you wouldn’t!  Let me alone, Peter.  I suppose some time I shall quiet down.  It doesn’t matter if I break my own heart.  But I won’t take the responsibility of anybody else’s heart just yet.”

“Well, of course, that means you’re not in love with anybody.  You’d soon chuck all that nonsense if you were.”

The young, despairing voice thrilled her.  It was all experience—­life—­drama—­this floating over summer water—­with a beautiful youth, whose heart seemed to be fluttering in her very hands.  But she was only thrilled intellectually—­as a spectator.  Peter would soon get over it.  She would be very kind to him, and let him down easily.  They drifted silently a little.  Then Peter said abruptly: