Helena wandered down to the gate of the farm lane opening on the main road, consumed with restlessness and anxiety.  If only they had let her go with them!  Buntingford’s last look as he raised his hat to her before departing, haunted her memory—­the appeal in it, the unspoken message.  Might they not, after all, be friends?  There seemed to be an exquisite relaxation in the thought.

Another hour passed.  Geoffrey French at last!  He came on a motor bicycle, and threw himself off beside her, breathless.

“Please get the car, Helena, and I’ll go on with you.  The town’s safe.  The troops have arrived, and the rioters are scattering.  The police have made some arrests, and Philip believes the thing is over—­or I shouldn’t have been allowed to come for you!”

“Why not?” said Helena half-indignantly, as they hurried towards the barn in which the car had been driven.  “Perhaps I might have been of some use!”

“No—­you helped us best by staying here.  The last hour’s been pretty bad.  And now Philip wants you to take two wounded police to the Smeaton Hospital—­five miles.  He’ll go with you.  They’re badly hurt, I’m afraid—­there was some vicious stone-throwing.”

“All right!  Perhaps you don’t know that’s my job!”

French helped her get out the car.

“We shall want mattresses and stretcher boards,” said Helena, surveying it thoughtfully.  “A doctor too and a nurse.”

“Right you are.  They’ve thought of all that.  You’ll find everything at the market-hall,—­where the two men are.”

They drove away together, and into the outer streets of the town, where now scarcely a soul was to be seen, though as the car passed, the windows were crowded with heads.  Police were everywhere, and the market-place—­a sorry sight of smoky wreck and ruin—­was held by a cordon of soldiers, behind which a crowd still looked on.  French, sitting beside her, watched the erect girl-driver, the excellence of her driving, the brain and skill she was bringing to bear upon her “job.”  Here was the “new woman” indeed, in her best aspect.  He could not but compare the Helena of this adventure—­this competent and admirable Helena—­with the girl of the night before.  Had the war produced the same dual personality in thousands of English men and English women?—­in the English nation itself?

They drew up at the steps of the market-hall, where a group of persons were standing, including a nurse in uniform.  Buntingford came forward, and bending over the side of the car, said to Helena: 

“Do you want to be relieved?  There are several people here who could drive the car.”

She flushed.

“I want to take these men to hospital.”

He smiled at her.

“You shall.”

He turned back to speak to the doctor who was to accompany the car.  Helena jumped out, and went to consult with the nurse.  In a very short time, the car had been turned as far as possible into an ambulance, and the wounded men were brought out.