“Eavesdropper!” laughed Helena.  “Shall we land?—­and go and look at them?”

She gave a touch to the rudder.  Then a shout rang out from the landing-stage on the other side of the water.

“Ah, that’s Geoffrey,” said Buntingford.  “And I must really get back to the house—­to see people off.”

With a little vigorous rowing they were soon across the lake.  Helena sat silent.  She did not want Geoffrey—­she did not want to reach the land—­she had been happy on the water—­why should things end?

* * * * *

Geoffrey reported that all was well with Lady Georgina, she had gone home, and then stepping into the boat as Buntingford stepped out, he began to push off.

“Isn’t it rather late?” began Helena in a hesitating voice, half rising from her seat.  “I promised Peter a supper dance.”

Geoffrey turned to look at her.

“Nobody’s gone in to supper yet.  Shall I take you back?”

There was something in his voice which meant that this tete-a-tete had been promised him.  Helena resigned herself.  But that she would rather have landed was very evident to her companion, who had been balked of half his chance already by Lady Georgina.  Why did elderly persons liable to faint come to dances?—­that was what he fiercely wanted to know as he pulled out into the lake.

Helena was very quiet.  She seemed tired, or dreamy.  Instinctively Geoffrey lost hold on his own purpose.  Something warned him to go warily.  By way of starting conversation he began to tell her of his own adventure on the lake—­of the dumb woman among the trees, whom he had seen and spoken to, without reply.  Helena was only moderately interested.  It was some village woman passing through the wood, she supposed.  Very likely the searchlight frightened her, and she knew she had no business there in June when there were young pheasants about—­

“Nobody’s started preserving again yet—­” put in Geoffrey.

“Old Fenn told me yesterday that there were lots of wild ones,” said Helena languidly.  “So there’ll be something to eat next winter.”

“Are you tired, Helena?”

“Not at all,” she said, sitting up suddenly.  “What were we talking about?—­oh, pheasants.  Do you think we really shall starve next winter, Geoffrey, as the Food Controller says?”

“I don’t much care!” said French.

Helena bent forward.

“Now, you’re cross with me, Geoffrey!  Don’t be cross!  I think I really am tired.  I seem to have danced for hours.”  The tone was childishly plaintive, and French was instantly appeased.  The joy of being with her—­alone—­returned upon him in a flood.

“Well, then, rest a little.  Why should you go back just yet?  Isn’t it jolly out here?”

“Lovely,” she said absently—­“but I promised Peter.”

“That’ll be all right.  We’ll just go across and back.”

There was a short silence—­long enough to hear the music from the house, and the distant voices of the dancers.  A little northwest wind was creeping over the lake, and stirring the scents of the grasses and sedge-plants on its banks.  Helena looked round to see in what direction they were going.