Helen’s life was a mystery to all but herself.  To the world she was a pretty, lively little widow, with a good house to live in, and sufficient money of her own to spend to very good effect upon her back, with not a single duty or responsibility in her existence, and with no other occupation in life than to amuse herself.  At her heart Helen knew herself to be a soured and disappointed woman, who had desired one thing all her life, and who, having attained with great pains and toil that forbidden fruit which she had coveted, had found it turn, as such fruits too often do, to dust and ashes between her teeth.  It was to have been sweet as honeydew—­and behold, it was nothing but bitterness!

She stood at the window looking out at the waning light of the November afternoon.  She was handsomely dressed in dark-green velvet, with a heavy old-fashioned gold chain round her neck; every now and then she looked at her watch, and a frown passed over her brow.  The old man was bending over the fire behind her.

“Gone to Kynaston, is he?  Humph! that is your fault, you frightened him off.”

“Did I set my cap at him so palpably then?” said Helen, with a short, hard laugh.

“You know very well what I mean,” answered her grandfather, sulkily.  “Set your cap!  No, you only do that to the men you know I don’t approve of, and who don’t want you.”

Helen winced a little.  “You put things very coarsely, grandpapa,” she said, and laughed again.  “I am sorry I have been unable to make love to Sir John Kynaston to please you.  Is that what you wanted me to do?”

“I want you to look after a respectable husband, who can afford to keep you.  What is the meaning of that perpetual going to Lady Kynaston’s then?  And why have you dragged me up to town at this confounded time of the year if it wasn’t for that?  You have played your cards badly as usual.  You might have had him if you had chosen.”

“I have never had the least intention of casting myself at Sir John’s head,” said Helen, scornfully.

“You can cast yourself, as you call it, at that good-for-nothing young spendthrift’s head fast enough if you choose it.”

“I don’t in the least know whom you mean,” she said, shortly.

The old man chuckled.  “Oh, yes, you know well enough—­the brother who spends his time racing and betting.  You are a fool, Helen; he doesn’t want you; and if he did, he couldn’t afford to keep you.”

“Suppose we leave Captain Kynaston’s name out of the discussion, grandpapa,” she said, quietly, but her face flushed suddenly and her hands twisted themselves nervously in and out of her heavy chain.  “Are you not going to your study this evening?”

“Oh yes, I’m going, fast enough.  You want me out of the way, I suppose.  Somebody coming to tea, eh?  Oh yes, I’ll clear out.  I don’t want to listen to your rubbish.”

The old man gathered up his books and papers and shuffled out of the room, muttering to himself as he went.