Meanwhile the gardens were deserted, save for a couple of gardeners and an electrician, who were laying some wires for the illumination of the rose-garden in front of the drawing-room, and Geoffrey French, who was in a boat, lazily drifting across the pond, and reading a volume of poems by a friend which he had brought down with him.  The evening was fast declining; and from the shadow of the deep wood which bordered the western edge of the pond he looked out on the sunset glow as it climbed the eastern hill, transfiguring the ridge, and leaving a rich twilight in the valley below.  The tranquillity of the water, the silence of the woods, the gentle swaying of the boat, finally wooed him from his book, which after all he had only taken up as a protection from tormenting thoughts.  Had he—­had he—­any chance with Helena?  A month before he would have scornfully denied that he was in love with her.  And now—­he had actually confessed his plight to Mrs. Friend!

As he lay floating between the green vault above, and the green weedy depths below, his thoughts searched the five weeks that lay between him and that first week-end when he had scolded Helena for her offences.  It seemed to him that his love for her had first begun that day of the Dansworth riot.  She had provoked and interested him before that—­but rather as a raw self-willed child—­a “flapper” whose extraordinary beauty gave her a distinction she had done nothing to earn.  But every moment in that Dansworth day was clear in memory:—­the grave young face behind the steering-wheel, the perfect lips compressed, the eyes intent upon their task, the girl’s courage and self-command.  Still more the patient Helena who waited for him at the farm—­the grateful exultant look when he said “Come”—­and every detail of the scene in Dansworth:—­Helena with her most professional air, driving through soldiers and police, Helena helping to carry and place the two wounded men, and that smiling “good-bye” she had thrown him as she drove away with Buntingford beside her.

The young man moved restlessly; and the light boat was set rocking.  It was curious how he too, like Lucy Friend, only from another point of view, was beginning to reflect on the new intimacy that seemed to be developing between Buntingford and his ward.  Philip of course was an awfully good fellow, and Helena was just finding it out; what else was there in it?  But the jealous pang roused by the thought of Buntingford, once felt, persisted.  Not for a moment did French doubt the honour or the integrity of a man, who had done him personally many a kindness, and had moreover given him some reason to think—–­(he recalled the odd little note he had received from Buntingford before Helena’s first week-end)—­that if he were to fall in love with Helena, his suit would be favourably watched by Helena’s guardian.  He could recall moreover one or two quite recent indications on Buntingford’s part—­very slight and guarded—­which seemed to point in the same direction.