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Now his manner, for all its courtesy, seemed to tell her that those times were done; that she was four years older; that she had lost the first brilliance of her looks; and that he himself had grown out of her ken. Helena's young unfriendly eyes had read her rightly. She did wish fervently to recapture Philip Buntingford; and saw no means of doing so.
Buntingford put his hand across his eyes; the look of weariness, of perplexity, intensified ten-fold. "An acquaintance of yours in Italy, come to ask you for help?" suggested Ramsay. Buntingford withdrew his hand. "No!" he said with decision. "Better tell the truth! She was my wife. She left me, as she has told the Alcotts, and took steps eleven years ago to make me believe her dead.
He took in the Buntingford Gazette, which came twice a week, and as Matthew laid it, opened and unread, in its accustomed place, he gave the information, which he had no doubt gotten from the paper. "You haven't heard it, sir, I suppose, as yet?" "Heard what?" "About Miss Puffle." "What about Miss Puffle? I haven't heard a word. What about Miss Puffle?"
The mounting silver rim suddenly recalled to Buntingford the fairy-like scene of the night before? the searchlight on the lake, the lights, the music, and the exquisite figure of Helena dancing through it all. Into what Vale of the Shadow of Death had he passed since then? Alcott and he turned into the plantation walk together. Various practical arrangements were discussed between them.
"I asked that question before I had seen you." "Of whom?" said Helena eagerly. "You didn't see anybody but Cousin Philip before I arrived. Tell me, Lucy tell me at once." Mrs. Friend kept a smiling silence for a minute. At last she said "Lord Buntingford showed me a portrait of you before you arrived." "A portrait of me? There isn't one in the house! Lucy, you deceiver, what do you mean?"
The result was that Cynthia was driven into an intimate and possessive tone with regard to Buntingford, which was more than the facts warranted, and soon reduced Helena to monosyllables, and a sarcastic lip. "You can't think," said Cynthia effusively "how good he is to us two. It is so like him. He never forgets us. But indeed he never forgets anybody."
And half guiltily her memory cherished those astonishing words "Mr. Alcott and I miss you very much." A drizzling rain had begun when towards eight o'clock they heard the sound of a motor coming up the Bettws road. Lucy retreated into the inn, while Helena stood at the gate waiting. Buntingford waved to her as they approached, then jumped out and followed her into the twilight of the inn parlour.
"You're coming to help light the bonfire?" said Geoffrey, addressing Philip. Buntingford shook his head. He turned to Lucy. "You and I will let the young ones go won't we? I don't see you climbing Moel Dun in the rain, and I'm getting too old! We'll walk up the road a bit, and look at the people as they go by. I daresay we shall see as much as the other two."
Her thanks, however, for "a lovely time!" and her pleading for a second show on the morrow, were so graceful, so sweet, that French, as he silently put the drawings back, felt his spirits drop to zero. What could have so changed the thorny, insolent girl of six weeks before but the one thing? He stole a glance at Buntingford.
He looked at her with a friendly wonder, and she, flushing deeper, was glad to see him claimed by a lively girl on his left, while she fell back on Mr. Parish, the agent, who, however, seemed to be absorbed in the amazing and agreeable fact that Lord Buntingford, though he drank no wine himself, had yet some Moet-et-Charidon of 1904 left to give to his guests. Mr.
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