He rushed off, with Cynthia toiling after him, and Helena descended to the lake.  As she neared the little landing stage, a boat approached it, containing Buntingford, and two or three of his guests.

“Hullo, Helena, what have you done with Geoffrey?”

She explained.  “We were just coming down for a row.”

“All right.  I’ll take you on till he comes.  Jump in!”

She obeyed, and they were soon halfway towards the further side.  But about the middle of the lake Buntingford was seized with belated compunction that he had not done his host’s duty to his queer, inarticulate cousin, Lady Georgina.  “I suppose I ought to have gone to look after her?”

“Not at all,” said Helena coolly.  “I believe she does it often.  She can’t want more than Lady Cynthia—­and Geoffrey—­and Mawson.  People shouldn’t be pampered!”

Her impertinence was so alluring as she sat opposite to him, trailing both hands in the water, that Buntingford submitted.  There was a momentary silence.  Then Helena said: 

“Lady Cynthia came to see me the other day.  Did you send her?”

“Of course.  I wanted you to make friends.”

“That we should never do!  We were simply born to dislike each other.”

“I never heard anything so unreasonable!” said Buntingford warmly.  “Cynthia is a very good creature, and can be excellent company.”

Helena gave a shrug.

“What does all that matter?” she said slowly—­“when one has instincts—­and intuitions.  No!—­don’t let’s talk any more about Lady Cynthia.  But—­there’s something—­please, Cousin Philip—­I want to say—­I may as well say it now.”

He looked at her rather astonished, and, dimly as he saw her in the shadow they had just entered, it seemed to him that her aspect had changed.

“What is it?  I hope nothing serious.”

“Yes—­it is serious, to me.  I hate apologizing!—­I always have.”

“My dear Helena!—­why should you apologize?  For goodness’ sake, don’t!  Think better of it.”

“I’ve got to do it,” she said firmly, “Cousin Philip, you were quite right about that man, Jim Donald, and I was quite wrong.  He’s a beast, and I loathe the thought of having danced with him—­there!—­I’m sorry!” She held out her hand.

Buntingford was supremely touched, and could not for the moment find a jest wherewith to disguise it.

“Thank you!” he said quietly, at last.  “Thank you, Helena.  That was very nice of you.”  And with a sudden movement he stooped and kissed the wet and rather quivering hand he held.  At the same moment, the searchlight which had been travelling about the pond, lighting up one boat after another to the amusement of the persons in them, and of those watching from the shore, again caught the boat in which sat Buntingford and Helena.  Both figures stood sharply out.  Then the light had travelled on, and Helena had hastily withdrawn her hand.