Cynthia. But--there's something--please, Cousin Philip--I want to say--I
may as well say it now."

He looked at her rather astonished, and, dimly as he saw her in
the shadow they had just entered, it seemed to him that her aspect
had changed.

"What is it? I hope nothing serious."

"Yes--it is serious, to me. I hate apologizing!--I always have."

"My dear Helena!--why should you apologize? For goodness' sake, don't!
Think better of it."

"I've got to do it," she said firmly, "Cousin Philip, you were quite
right about that man, Jim Donald, and I was quite wrong. He's a beast,
and I loathe the thought of having danced with him--there!--I'm sorry!"
She held out her hand.

Buntingford was supremely touched, and could not for the moment find a
jest wherewith to disguise it.

"Thank you!" he said quietly, at last. "Thank you, Helena. That was very
nice of you." And with a sudden movement he stooped and kissed the wet
and rather quivering hand he held. At the same moment, the searchlight
which had been travelling about the pond, lighting up one boat after
another to the amusement of the persons in them, and of those watching
from the shore, again caught the boat in which sat Buntingford and
Helena. Both figures stood sharply out. Then the light had travelled on,
and Helena had hastily withdrawn her hand.