“Well, at least, Helena, you might promise me not to dance with Jim Donald again!”

“Peter—­my promises of that kind—­are worth nothing! ...  I think it’s getting late—­we ought to be going home!” And she gave the rudder a turn for the shore.

He unwillingly complied, and after rowing through the shadow of the woods, they emerged on a moonlit slope of lawn, where was the usual landing-place.  Two persons who had been strolling along the edge of the water approached them.

“Who is that with Buntingford?” asked Dale.

“My new chaperon.  Aren’t you sorry for her?”

“I jolly well am!” cried Peter.  “She’ll have a dog’s life!”

“That’s very rude of you, Peter.  You may perhaps be surprised to hear that I like her very much.  She’s a little dear—­and I’m going to be awfully good to her.”

“Which means, of course, that she’ll never dare to cross you!”

“Peter, don’t be unkind!  Dear Peter—­make it up!  I do want to be friends.  There’s just time for you to say something nice!”

For his vigorous strokes were bringing them rapidly to the bank.

“Oh, what’s the good of talking!” said the boy impatiently.  “I shall be friends, of course—­take what you fling me.  I can’t do anything else.”

Helena blew him a kiss, to which he made no response.

“All right!—­I’ll bring you in!” said Lord Buntingford from the shore.

He dragged the boat up on the sandy edge, and offered a hand to Helena.  She stumbled out, and would have fallen into the shallow water but for his sudden grip upon her.

“That was stupid of me!” she said, vexed with herself.

He made no reply.  It was left to Mrs. Friend to express a hope that she had not sprained her foot.

“Oh, dear no,” said Helena.  “But I’m cold.  Peter, will you race me to the house?  Give me a fair start!”

Peter eagerly placed her, and then—­a maiden flying and a young god pursuing—­they had soon drawn the eyes and laughter of all the other guests, who cheered as the panting Helena, winner by a foot, dashed through the drawing-room window into the house.

Helena and Mrs. Friend had been discussing the evening,—­Helena on the floor, in a white dressing-gown, with her hair down her back.  She had amused herself with a very shrewd analysis—­not too favourable—­of Geoffrey French’s character and prospects, and had rushed through an eloquent account of Peter’s performances in the war; she had mocked at Lady Maud’s conventionalities, and mimicked the “babe’s” simpering manner with young men; she had enquired pityingly how Mrs. Friend had got on with the old Canon who had taken her in to dinner, and had launched into rather caustic and, to Mrs. Friend’s ear, astonishing criticisms of “Cousin Philip’s wine”—­which Mrs. Friend had never even dreamt of tasting.  But of Cousin Philip himself there was not a word.  Mrs. Friend knew there had been an interview between them; but she dared not ask questions.  How to steer her way in the moral hurricane she foresaw, was what preoccupied her; so as both to do her duty to Lord B. and yet keep a hold on this strange being in whose good graces she still found herself—­much to her astonishment.