“Peter!—­then of course you know I never flirted with you!” said Helena, with vigour.  Peter hesitated, and Helena at once pursued her advantage.

“Let’s talk of something more to the point.  I’m told, Peter, that you’ve been paying great attentions—­marked attentions—­to a very nice girl—­that everybody’s talking about it,—­and that you ought long ago either to have fixed it up,—­or cleared out.  What do you say to that, Peter?”

Peter flushed.

“I suppose you mean—­Jenny Dumbarton,” he said slowly.  “Of course, she’s a very dear, pretty, little thing.  But do you know why I first took to her?” He looked defiantly at his companion.

“No.”

“Because—­she’s rather like you.  She’s your colour—­she has your hair—­she’s a way with her that’s something like you.  When I’m dancing with her, if I shut my eyes, I can sometimes fancy—­it’s you!”

“Oh, goodness!” cried Helena, burying her face in her hands.  It was a cry of genuine distress.  Peter was silent a moment.  Then he came closer.

“Just look at me, please, Helena!”

She raised her eyes unwillingly.  In the boy’s beautiful clear-cut face the sudden intensity of expression compelled her—­held her guiltily silent.

“Once more, Helena”—­he said, in a voice that shook—­“is there no chance for me?”

“No, no, dear Peter!” she cried, stretching out her hands to him.  “Oh, I thought that was all over.  I sent for you because I wanted just to say to you—­don’t trifle!—­don’t shilly-shally!  I know Jenny Dumbarton a little.  She’s charming—­she’s got a delicate, beautiful character—­and such a warm heart!  Don’t break anybody’s heart, Peter—­for my silly sake!”

The surge of emotion in Peter subsided slowly.  He began to study the moss at his feet, poking at it with his stick.

“What makes you think I’ve been breaking Jenny’s heart?” he said at last in another voice.

“Some of your friends, Peter, yours and mine—­have been writing to me.  She’s—­she’s very fond of you, they say, and lately she’s been looking a little limp ghost—­all along of you, Mr. Peter!  What have you been doing?”

“What any other man in my position would have been doing—­wishing to Heaven I knew what to do!” said Peter, still poking vigorously at the moss.

Helena bent forward from the oak tree, and just whispered—­“Go back to-morrow, Peter,—­and propose to Jenny Dumbarton!”

Peter could not trust himself to look up at what he knew must be the smiling seduction of her eyes and lips.  He was silent; and Helena withdrew—­dryad-like—­into the hollow made by the intertwined stems of the oak, threw her head back against the main trunk, dropped her eyelids, and waited.

“Are you asleep, Helena?” said Peter’s voice at last.

“Not at all.”

“Then sit up, please, and listen to me.”

She obeyed.  Peter was standing over her, his hands on his sides, looking very manly, and rather pale.