s head. Well!--as far as I can gather--I really know her
very slightly--my little cousin Helena's in just the same sort of stage.
All we people over forty might as well make our wills and have done with
it. They'll soon discover some kind device for putting us out of the way.
They've no use for us. And yet at the same time"--he flung his cigarette
into the wood-fire beside him--"the fathers and mothers who brought them
into the world will insist on clucking after them, or if they can't cluck
themselves, making other people cluck. I shall have to try and cluck
after Helena. It's absurd, and I shan't succeed, of course--how could I?
But as I told you, her mother was a dear woman--and--"

His sentence stopped abruptly. Mrs. Friend thought--"he was in love with
her." However, she got no further light on the matter. Lord Buntingford
rose, and lit another cigarette.

"I must go and write a letter before post. Well, you see, you and I have
got to do our best. Of course, you mustn't try and run her on a tight
rein--you'd be thrown before you were out of the first field--" His blue
eyes smiled down upon the little stranger lady. "And you mustn't spy upon
her. But if you're really in difficulties, come to me. We'll make out,
somehow. And now, she'll be here in a few minutes. Would you like to stay
here--or shall I ring for the housemaid to show you your room?"

"Thank you--I--think I'll stay here. Can I find a book?"

She looked round shyly.

"Scores. There are some new books"--he pointed to a side-table where
the obvious contents of a Mudie box, with some magazines, were laid
out--"and if you want old ones, that door"--he waved towards one at
the far end of the room--"will take you into the library. My
great-grandfather's collection--not mine! And then one has ridiculous
scruples about burning them! However, you'll find a few nice ones. Please
make yourself at home!" And with a slight bow to her, the first sign in
him of those manners of the _grand seigneur_ she had vaguely expected, he
was moving away, when she said hurriedly, pursuing her own thought:

"You said Miss Pitstone was very good-looking?"

"Oh, very!" He laughed. "She's exactly like Romney's Lady Hamilton. You
know the type?"

"Ye-es," said Mrs. Friend. "I think I remember--before the war--at
Agnew's? My husband took me there once." The tone was hesitating. The
little lady was clearly not learned in English art. But Lord Buntingford
liked her the better for