you what I arranged. But you can have any other
room you prefer."

He led the way to the first floor, and opened a door in a corner of the
pillared gallery.

"Oh, jolly!" cried Helena.

For they entered a lofty room, with white Georgian panelling, a few
pretty old cabinets and chairs, a chintz-covered sofa, a stand of stuffed
humming-birds, a picture or two, a blue Persian carpet, and a large
book-case full of books.

"My books!" cried Helena in amazement. "I was just going to ask if
the cases had come. How ever did you get them unpacked, and put here
so quickly?"

"Nothing easier. They arrived three days ago. I telephoned to a man I
know in Leicester Square. He sent some one down, and they were all
finished before you came down. Perhaps you won't like the arrangement?
Well, it will amuse you to undo it!"

If there was the slightest touch of sarcasm in the eyes that travelled
from her to the books, Helena took it meekly. She went to the
bookshelves. Poets, novelists, plays, philosophers, economists, some
French and Italian books, they were all in their proper places. The books
were partly her own, partly her mother's. Helena eyed them thoughtfully.

"You must have taken a lot of trouble."

"Not at all. The man took all the trouble. There wasn't much."

As he spoke, her eye caught a piano standing between the windows.

"Mummy's piano! Why, I thought we agreed it should be stored?"

"It seemed to me you might as well have it down here. We can easily hire
one for London."

"Awfully nice of you," murmured Helena. She opened it and stood with her
hand on the keys, looking out into the park, as though she pursued some
thought or memory of her own. It was a brilliant May morning, and the
windows were open. Helena's slim figure in a white dress, the reddish
touch in her brown hair, the lovely rounding of her cheek and neck, were
thrown sharply against a background of new leaf made by a giant beech
tree just outside. Mrs. Friend looked at Lord Buntingford. The thought
leaped into her mind--"How can he help making love to her himself?"--only
to be immediately chidden. Buntingford was not looking at Helena but at
his watch.

"Well, I must go and do some drivelling work before lunch. I have given
Mrs. Friend _carte blanche_, Helena. Order what you like, and if Mrs.
Mawson bothers you, send her to me. Geoffrey comes to-night, and we shall
be seven to-morrow."

He made for the door. Helena had turned suddenly at hi