y begged me, I told Buntingford my conditions.
And he's broken them!"

And standing still, the tempestuous creature drew herself to her full
height, her arms rigid by her side--a tragic-comic figure in the dim
illumination of the two guttering candles.

Mrs. Friend attempted a diversion.

"Who else is coming for the week-end?"

Instantly Helena's mood dissolved in laughter. She came to perch herself
on the arm of Mrs. Friend's chair.

"There--now let's forget my tiresome guardian. I promised to tell you
about my 'boys.' Well, there are two of them coming--and Geoffrey French,
besides a nephew of Buntingford's, who'll have this property and most of
the money some day, always supposing this tyrant of mine doesn't marry,
which of course any reasonable man would. Well--there's Peter Dale--the
dearest, prettiest little fellow you ever saw. He was aide-de-camp to
Lord Brent in the war--_very_ smart--up to everything. He's demobbed, and
has gone into the City. Horribly rich already, and will now, of course,
make another pile. He dreadfully wants to marry me--but--" she shook her
head with emphasis--"No!--it wouldn't do. He tries to kiss me sometimes.
I didn't mind it at first. But I've told him not to do it again. Then
there's Julian--Julian Horne--Balliol--awfully clever"--she checked off
the various items on her fingers--"as poor as a rat--a Socialist, of
course--they all are, that kind--but a real one--not like Geoffrey
French, who's a sham, though he is in the House, and has joined the
Labour party. You see"--her tone grew suddenly serious--"I don't reckon
Geoffrey French among my boys."

"He's too old?"

"Oh, he's not so very old. But--I don't think he likes me very much--and
I'm not sure whether I like him. He's good fun, however--and he rags
Julian Horne splendidly. That's one of his chief functions--and another
is, to take a hand in my education--when I allow him--and when Julian
isn't about. They both tell me what to read. Julian tells me to read
history, and gives me lists of books. Geoffrey talks economics--and
philosophy--and I adore it--he talks so well. He gave me Bergson the
other day. Have you ever read any of him?"

"Never," said Mrs. Friend, bewildered. "Who is he?"

Helena's laugh woke the echoes of the room. But she checked it at once.

"I don't want _him_ to think we're plotting," she said in a
stage-whisper, looking round her. "If I do anything I want to spring
it on him!"

"Dear Miss Pitsto