“Oh, well, a good many people know that—­though Mummy always said she never came across anybody who had ever seen his wife.  He married her when he was quite a boy—–­abroad somewhere—­when there seemed no chance of his ever being Lord Buntingford—­he had two elder brothers who died—­and she was an art student on her own.  An old uncle of Mummy’s once told me that when Cousin Philip came back from abroad—­she died abroad—­after her death, he seemed altogether changed somehow.  But he never, never speaks of her”—­the girl swayed her slim body backwards and forwards for emphasis—­“and I wouldn’t advise you or anybody else to try.  Most people think he’s just a bachelor.  I never talk about it to people—­Mummy said I wasn’t to—­and as he was very nice to Mummy—­well, I don’t.  But I thought you’d better know.  And now I think we’d better dress.”

But instead of moving, she looked down affectionately at her uniform and her neat brown leggings.

“What a bore!  I suppose I’ve no right to them any more.”

“What is your uniform?”

“Women Ambulance Drivers.  Don’t you know the hostel in Ruby Square?  I bargained with Cousin Philip after Mummy’s death I should stay out my time, till I was demobbed.  Awfully jolly time I had—­on the whole—­though the girls were a mixed lot.  Well—­let’s get a move on.”  She sprang up.  “Your room’s next door.”

Mrs. Friend was departing when Helena enquired: 

“By the way—­have you ever heard of Cynthia Welwyn?”

Mrs. Friend turned at the door, and shook her head.

“Oh, well, I can tot her up very quickly—­just to give you an idea—­as she’s coming to dinner.  She’s fair and forty—­just about Buntingford’s age—­quite good-looking—­quite clever—­lives by herself, reads a great deal—­runs the parish—­you know the kind of thing.  They swarm!  I think she would like to marry Cousin Philip, if he would let her.”

Mrs. Friend hurriedly shut the door at her back, which had been slightly ajar.  Helena laughed—­the merry but very soft laugh Mrs. Friend had first heard in the hall—­a laugh which seemed somehow out of keeping with the rest of its owner’s personality.

“Don’t be alarmed.  I doubt whether that would be news to anybody in this house!  But Buntingford’s quite her match.  Well, ta-ta.  Shall I come and help you dress?”

“The idea!” cried Mrs. Friend.  “Shall I help you?” She looked round the room and at Helena vigorously tackling the boxes.  “I thought you had a maid?”

“Not at all.  I couldn’t be bored with one.”

“Do let me help you!”

“Then you’d be my maid, and I should bully you and detest you.  You must go and dress.”