She fell back on the cushions of the stern seat, vexed with her own
agitation. She had described herself truly. She was proud, and it was
hard for her to "climb down." But there was much else in the mixed
feeling that possessed her. There seemed, for one thing, to be a curious
happiness in it; combined also with a renewed jealousy for an
independence she might have seemed to be giving away. She wanted to
say--"Don't misunderstand me!--I'm not really giving up anything vital--I
mean all the same to manage my life in my own way." But it was difficult
to say it in the face of the coatless man opposite, of whose house she
had become practically mistress, and who had changed all his personal
modes of life to suit hers. Her eyes wandered to the gay scene of the
house and its gardens, with its Watteau-ish groups of young men and
maidens, under the night sky, its light and music. All that had been
done, to give her pleasure, by a man who had for years conspicuously
shunned society, and whose life in the old country house, before her
advent, had been, as she had come to know, of the quietest. She bent
forward again, impulsively:

"Cousin Philip!--I'm enjoying this party enormously--it's awfully,
awfully good of you--but I don't want you to do it any more--"

"Do what, Helena?"

"Please, I can get along without any more week-ends, or parties. You--you
spoil me!"

"Well--we're going up to London, aren't we, soon? But I daresay you're
right"--his tone grew suddenly grave. "While we dance, there is a
terrible amount of suffering going on in the world."