Certainly the relations between her and her guardian had curiously changed.  In the first place, since her Dansworth adventure, Helena had found something to do to think about other than quarrelling with “Cousin Philip.”  Her curiosity as to how the two wounded police, whom she had driven to the County Hospital that day, might be faring had led to her going over there two or three times a week, either to relieve an overworked staff, or to drive convalescent soldiers, still under treatment in the wards.

The occupation had been a godsend to her, and everybody else.  She still talked revolution, and she was always ready to spar with Lord Buntingford, or other people.  But all the same Lucy Friend was often aware of a much more tractable temper, a kind of hesitancy—­and appeasement—­which, even if it passed away, made her beauty, for the moment, doubly attractive.

Was it, after all, the influence of Lord Buntingford—­and was the event justifying her mother’s strange provision for her?  He had certainly treated her with a wonderful kindness and indulgence.  Of late he had returned to his work at the Admiralty, only coming down to Beechmark for long week-ends from Friday to Monday.  But in these later week-ends he had gradually abandoned the detached and half-sarcastic attitude which he had originally assumed towards Helena, and it seemed to Lucy Friend that he was taking his function towards her with a new seriousness.  If so, it had affected himself at least as much as the proud and difficult girl whose guidance had been so hurriedly thrust upon him.  His new role had brought out in him unexpected resources, or revived old habits.  For instance he had not ridden for years; though, as a young man, and before his accident, he had been a fine horseman.  But he now rode whenever he was at Beechmark, to show Helena the country; and they both looked so well on horseback that it was a pleasure of which Lucy Friend never tired to watch them go and to welcome them home.

Then the fact that he was a trained artist, which most of his friends had forgotten, became significant again for Helena’s benefit.  She had some aptitude, and more ambition—­would indeed, but for the war, have been a South Kensington student, and had long cherished yearnings for the Slade.  He set her work to do during the week, and corrected it with professional sharpness when he reappeared.

And more important perhaps than either the riding or the drawing, was the partial relaxation for her benefit of the reserve and taciturnity which had for years veiled the real man from those who liked and respected him most.  He never indeed talked of himself or his past; but he would discuss affairs, opinions, books—­especially on their long rides together—­with a frankness, and a tone of gay and equal comradeship, which, or so Mrs. Friend imagined, had had a disarming and rather bewildering effect on Helena.  The girl indeed seemed often surprised and excited.  It was evident that they had never got on during her mother’s lifetime, and that his habitual bantering or sarcastic tone towards her while she was still in the school-room had roused an answering resentment in her.  Hence the aggressive mood in which, after two or three months of that half-mad whirl of gaiety into which London had plunged after the Armistice, she had come down to Beechmark.