An hour later, the broad lawns of Beechmark, burnt yellow by the May drought, were alive with guests, men in khaki and red tabs, fresh from their War Office work; two naval Commanders, and a resplendent Flag-Lieutenant; a youth in tennis flannels, just released from a city office, who seven months earlier had been fighting in the last advance of the war, and a couple of cadets who had not been old enough to fight at all; girls who had been “out” before the war, and two others, Helena’s juniors, who were just leaving the school-room and seemed to be all aglow with the excitement and wonder of this peace-world; a formidable grey-haired woman, who was Lady Mary Chance; Cynthia and Georgina Welwyn, and the ill-dressed, arresting figure of Mr. Alcott.  Not all were Buntingford’s guests; some were staying at the Cottage, some in another neighbouring house; but Beechmark represented the headquarters of a gathering of which Helena Pitstone and her guardian were in truth the central figures.

Helena in white, playing tennis; Helena with a cigarette, resting between her sets, and chaffing with a ring of dazzled young men; Helena talking wild nonsense with Geoffrey French, for the express purpose of shocking Lady Mary Chance; and the next minute listening with a deference graceful enough to turn even the seasoned head of a warrior to a grey-haired general describing the taking of the Vimy Ridge; and finally, Helena, holding a dancing class under the cedars on the yellow smoothness of the lawn, after tea, for such young men as panted to conquer the mysteries of “hesitation” or jazzing, and were ardently courting instruction in the desperate hope of capturing their teacher for a dance that night:—­it was on these various avatars of Helena that the whole party turned; and Lady Mary indignantly felt that there was no escaping the young woman.

“Why do you let her smoke—­and paint—­and swear—­I declare I heard her swear!” she said in Buntingford’s ear, as the dressing-bell rang, and he was escorting her to the house.  “And mark my words, Philip—­men may be amused by that kind of girl, but they won’t marry her.”

Buntingford laughed.

“As Helena’s guardian I’m not particularly anxious about that!”

“Ah, no doubt, she tells you people propose to her—­but is it true?” snapped Lady Mary.

“You imagine that Helena tells me of her proposals?” said Buntingford, wondering.

“My dear Philip, don’t pose!  Isn’t that the special function of a guardian?”

“It may be.  But, if so, Helena has never given me the chance of performing it.”

“I told you so!  Men will flirt with her, but they don’t propose to her!” said Lady Mary triumphantly.

Buntingford, smiling, let her have the last word, as he asked Mrs. Friend to show her to her room.