dizzily that she
was beginning to lose control of the situation, as Geoffrey sank down
into the fern beside her.

"At last!" he said, drawing a long breath--"_At last_!"

He lay looking up at her, his long face working with emotion--the face of
an intellectual, with that deep scar on the temple, where a fragment of
shrapnel had struck him on the first day of the Somme advance.

"Unkind Helena!" he said, in a low voice that shook--"_unkind Helena_!"

Her lips framed a retort. Then suddenly the tears rushed into her eyes,
and she covered them with her hands.

"I'm not unkind. I'm afraid!"

"Afraid of what?"

"I told you," she said piteously, "I didn't want to marry--I didn't want
to be bound!"

"And you haven't changed your mind at all?"

She didn't answer. There was silence a moment. Then she said abruptly:

"Do you want to hear secrets, Geoffrey?"

He pondered.

"I don't know. I expect I guess them."

"What do you guess?" She lifted a proud face. He touched her hand
tenderly.

"I guess that when you came here--you were unhappy?"

Her lip trembled.

"I was--very unhappy."

"And now?" he asked, caressing the hand he held.

"Well, now--I've walked myself back into--into common sense. There!--I
had it out with myself. I may as well have it out with you! Two months
ago I was a bit in love with Cousin Philip. Now, of course, I love him--I
always shall love him--but I'm not _in_ love with him!"

"Thank the Lord!" cried French--"since it has been the object of my life
for much more than two months to persuade you to be in love with me!"

"I don't think I am--yet," said Helena slowly.

Her look was strange--half repellent. On both sides indeed there was a
note of something else than prosperous love-making. On his, the
haunting doubt lest she had so far given her heart to Philip that full
fruition for himself, that full fruition which youth at its zenith
instinctively claims from love and fortune, could never be his. On
hers, the consciousness, scarcely recognized till now, of a moment of
mental exhaustion caused by mental conflict. She was half indignant
that he should press her, yet aware that she would miss the pressure if
it ceased; while he, believing that his cause was really won, and urged
on by Peter's hints, resented the barriers she would still put up
between them.

There was a short silence after her last speech. Then Helena said
softly--half laughing:

"You haven't talked philosophy to