two quite recent indications on Buntingford's part--very slight and
guarded--which seemed to point in the same direction.

All very well: Buntingford himself might be quite heart-whole and might
remain so. French, who knew him well, though there was fourteen years
between them, was tolerably certain--without being able to give any very
clear reason for the conviction--that Buntingford would never have
undertaken the guardianship of Helena, had the merest possibility of
marrying her crossed his mind. French did not believe that it had ever
yet crossed his mind. There was nothing in his manner towards her to
suggest anything more than friendship, deepening interest, affectionate
responsibility--all feelings which would have shown themselves plainly
from the beginning had she allowed it.

But Helena herself? It was clear that however much they might still
disagree, Buntingford had conquered her original dislike of him, and was
in process of becoming the guide, philosopher, and friend her mother had
meant him to be. And Buntingford had charm and character, and
imagination. He could force a girl like Helena to respect him
intellectually; with such a nature that was half the battle. He would be
her master in time. Besides, there were all Philip's endless
opportunities of making life agreeable and delightful to her. When they
went to London, for instance, he would come out of the shell he had lived
in so long, and Helena would see him as his few intimate friends had
always seen him:--as one of the most accomplished and attractive of
mortals, with just that touch of something ironic and mysterious in his
personality and history, which appeals specially to a girl's fancy.

And what would be the end of it? Tragedy for Helena?--as well as bitter
disappointment and heartache for himself, Geoffrey French? He was