Her hands lay idly on the bright-coloured knitting, and Geoffrey could watch the emotion on her face.

“And one is so glad to be his friend!” she went on softly, “because he has suffered so!”

“You mean in his marriage?  What do you know about it?”

“Can’t one guess?” she went on in the same low voice.  “He never speaks of her!  There isn’t a picture of her, of any sort, in the house.  He used to speak of her sometimes, I believe, to mother—­of course she never said a word—­but never, never, to anyone else.  It’s quite clear that he wants to forget it altogether.  Well, you don’t want to forget what made you happy.  And he says such bitter things often.  Oh, I’m sure it was a tragedy!”

“Well—­why doesn’t he marry again?” Geoffrey had turned over on his elbows, and seemed to be examining the performances of an ant who was trying to carry off a dead fly four times his size.

Helena did not answer immediately, and Geoffrey, looking up from the ant, was aware of conflicting expressions passing across her face.  At last she said, drawing a deep breath: 

“Well, at least, I’m glad he’s come to like this dear old place—­He never used to care about it in the least.”

“That’s because you’ve made it so bright for him,” said Geoffrey, finding a seat on a tree-stump near her, and fumbling for a cigarette.  The praises of Philip were becoming monotonous and a reckless wish to test his own fate was taking possession of him.

“I haven’t!”—­said Helena vehemently.  “I have asked all sorts of people down he didn’t like—­and I’ve made him live in one perpetual racket.  I’ve been an odious little beast.  But now—­perhaps—­I shall know better what he wants.”

“Excellent sentiments!” A scoffer looked down upon her through curling rings of smoke.  “Shall I tell you what Philip wants?”

“What?”

“He wants a wife.”

The attentive eyes fixed on him withdrew themselves.

“Well—­suppose he does?”

“Are you going to supply him with one?  Lady Cynthia, I think, would accommodate you.”

Helena flushed angrily.

“He hasn’t the smallest intention of proposing to Cynthia.  Nobody with eyes in their head would suggest it.”

“No—­but if you and he are such great friends—­couldn’t you pull it off?  It would be very suitable,” said Geoffrey coolly.

Helena broke out—­the quick breath beating against her white bodice: 

“Of course I understand you perfectly, Geoffrey—­perfectly!  You’re not very subtle—­are you?  What you’re thinking is that when I call Philip my friend I’m meaning something else—­that I’m plotting—­intriguing—­”

Her words choked her.  Geoffrey put out a soothing hand—­and touched hers.

“My dear child:—­how could I suggest anything of the kind?  I’m only a little sorry—­for Philip,”

“Philip can take care of himself,” she said passionately.  “Only a stupid—­conventional—­mind could want to spoil what is really so—­so—­”