“A long sitting!” said Buntingford with a laugh—­“four hours.  I really can’t construct any reasonable explanation on those lines.”

“Why not?  Some people have a passion for spying and eavesdropping.  If I were such a person, dumped in a country village with nothing to do, I think I could have amused myself a good deal last night, in that observation post.  Through that hole I told you of, one could see the lights and the dancing on the lawn, and watch the boats on the lake.  She could hear the music, and if anyone did happen to be talking secrets just under the yews, she could have heard every word, quite easily.”

Involuntarily he looked at Helena, Helena was looking at the grass.  Was it mere fancy, or was there a sudden pinkness in her cheeks?  Buntingford too seemed to have a slightly conscious air.  But he rose to his feet, with a laugh.

“Well, I’ll have a stroll to the village, some time to-day, and see what I can discover about your Incognita, Helena.  If she is a holiday visitor, she’ll be still on the spot.  Geoffrey had better come with me, as he’s the only person who’s seen her.”

“Right you are.  After lunch.”

Buntingford nodded assent and went into the house.

* * * * *

The day grew hotter.  Lodge and Julian Horne went off for a swim in the cool end of the lake.  Peter still slept, looking so innocent and infantine in his sleep that no one had the heart to wake him.  French and Helena were left together, and were soon driven by the advancing sun to the deep shade of a lime-avenue, which, starting from the back of the house, ran for half a mile through the park.  Here they were absolutely alone.  Lady Mary’s prying eyes were defeated, and Helena incidentally remarked that Mrs. Friend, being utterly “jacked up,” had been bullied into staying in bed till luncheon.

So that in the green sunflecked shadow of the limes, Geoffrey had—­if Helena so pleased—­a longer tete-a-tete before him, and a more generous opportunity, even, than the gods had given him on the lake.  His pulses leapt; goaded, however, by alternate hope and fear.  But at least he had the chance to probe the situation a little deeper; even if prudence should ultimately forbid him anything more.

Helena had chosen a wooden seat round one of the finest limes.  Some books brought out for show rather than use, lay beside her.  A piece of knitting—­a scarf of a bright greenish yellow—­lay on the lap of her white dress.  She had taken off her hat, and Geoffrey was passionately conscious of the beauty of the brown head resting, as she talked, against the furrowed trunk of the lime.  Her brown-gold hair was dressed in the new way, close to the head and face, and fastened by some sapphire pins behind the ear.  From this dark frame, and in the half light of the avenue, the exquisite whiteness of the forehead and neck, the brown eyes, so marvellously