All very well:  Buntingford himself might be quite heart-whole and might remain so.  French, who knew him well, though there was fourteen years between them, was tolerably certain—­without being able to give any very clear reason for the conviction—­that Buntingford would never have undertaken the guardianship of Helena, had the merest possibility of marrying her crossed his mind.  French did not believe that it had ever yet crossed his mind.  There was nothing in his manner towards her to suggest anything more than friendship, deepening interest, affectionate responsibility—­all feelings which would have shown themselves plainly from the beginning had she allowed it.

But Helena herself?  It was clear that however much they might still disagree, Buntingford had conquered her original dislike of him, and was in process of becoming the guide, philosopher, and friend her mother had meant him to be.  And Buntingford had charm and character, and imagination.  He could force a girl like Helena to respect him intellectually; with such a nature that was half the battle.  He would be her master in time.  Besides, there were all Philip’s endless opportunities of making life agreeable and delightful to her.  When they went to London, for instance, he would come out of the shell he had lived in so long, and Helena would see him as his few intimate friends had always seen him:—­as one of the most accomplished and attractive of mortals, with just that touch of something ironic and mysterious in his personality and history, which appeals specially to a girl’s fancy.

And what would be the end of it?  Tragedy for Helena?—­as well as bitter disappointment and heartache for himself, Geoffrey French?  He was confident that Helena had in her the capacity for passion; that the flowering-time of such a nature would be one of no ordinary intensity.  She would love, and be miserable—­and beat herself to pieces—­poor, brilliant Helena!—­against her own pain.

What could he do?  Might there not be some chance for himself—­now—­while the situation was still so uncertain and undeveloped?  Helena was still unconscious, unpledged.  Why not cut in at once?  “She likes me—­she has been a perfect dear to me these last few times of meeting!  Philip backs me.  He would take my part.  Perhaps, after all, my fears are nonsense, and she would no more dream of marrying Philip, than he would dream, under cover of his guardianship, of making love to her.”

He raised himself in the boat, filled with a new inrush of will and hope, and took up the drifting oars.  Across the water, on the white slopes of lawn, and in some of the windows of the house, lights were appearing.  The electricians were testing the red and blue lamps they had been stringing among the rose-beds, and from the gabled boathouse on the further side, a bright shaft from a small searchlight which had been fixed there, was striking across the water.  Geoffrey watched it wandering over the dark wood on his right,