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Suddenly through the open French windows of the library, a shrill telephone call rang out. It came from the instrument on Buntingford's desk, and the two outside could see him take up the receiver. "Hullo!" "It's a message from Dansworth," said Cynthia, springing to her feet. "They've sent for him."
And now Buntingford's going to insult him publicly. And that I won't stand I vow I won't! It's insulting me too!" And springing up, she began a stormy pacing of the room, her white gown falling back from her neck and throat, and her hair floating behind her. Mrs. Friend had begun to collect herself.
"Of course I should like to understand what your views are," he said at last, throwing away one cigarette, and lighting another. Helena's look kindled. She looked handsomer and more maenad-like than ever, as she stood leaning against Buntingford's writing-table, her arms folded, one slim foot crossed over the other.
The best was denied him, and from the worse he himself turned away; though haunted all the time by the natural hunger of the normal man. As they walked on, Alcott gradually shaped some image for himself of what had happened during the years of the marriage, piecing it together from Buntingford's agitated talk.
It was enough to listen and look at Lady Cynthia on Lord Buntingford's right hand, and Helena Pitstone on his left; or at the handsome officer with whom Helena seemed to be happily flirting through a great part of dinner. Lady Cynthia was extremely good-looking, and evidently agreeable, though it seemed to Mrs. Friend that Lord Buntingford only gave her divided attention.
Buntingford's last look as he raised his hat to her before departing, haunted her memory the appeal in it, the unspoken message. Might they not, after all, be friends? There seemed to be an exquisite relaxation in the thought. Another hour passed. Geoffrey French at last! He came on a motor bicycle, and threw himself off beside her, breathless.
Helena was not long in suspecting that Lady Cynthia was in some way Buntingford's envoy, and had been sent to make friends, with an ulterior object; while Cynthia was repelled by the girl's ungracious manner, and by the gulf which it implied between the outlook of forty, and that of nineteen. "She means to make me feel that I might have been her mother and that we have nothing in common!"
Alcott. Not all were Buntingford's guests; some were staying at the Cottage, some in another neighbouring house; but Beechmark represented the headquarters of a gathering of which Helena Pitstone and her guardian were in truth the central figures.
But we'll sit up to-night, if you're not sleepy, and I'll give you a complete catalogue of some of their qualifications physical, intellectual, financial. Then you'll have the carte du pays. Two of them are coming to-morrow for the Sunday. There's nobody coming to-night of the least interest. Cynthia Welwyn, Captain Vivian Lodge, Buntingford's cousin rather a prig but good-looking.
"Why do you let her smoke and paint and swear I declare I heard her swear!" she said in Buntingford's ear, as the dressing-bell rang, and he was escorting her to the house. "And mark my words, Philip men may be amused by that kind of girl, but they won't marry her." Buntingford laughed. "As Helena's guardian I'm not particularly anxious about that!"
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