"You mean--after the war?"

He nodded. "Famine everywhere--women and children dying--half a dozen
bloody little wars. And here at home we seem to be on the brink of
civil war."

"We oughtn't to be amusing ourselves at all!--that's the real truth of
it," said Helena with gloomy decision. "But what are we to do--women, I
mean? They told me at the hospital yesterday they get rid of their last
convalescents next week. What _is_ there for me to do? If I were a
factory girl, I should be getting unemployment benefit. My occupation's
gone--such as it was--it's not my fault!"

"Marry, my dear child,--and bring up children," said Buntingford bluntly.
"That's the chief duty of Englishwomen just now."

Helena flushed and said nothing. They drifted nearer to the bank, and
Helena perceived, at the end of a little creek, a magnificent group of
yew trees, of which the lower branches were almost in the water. Behind
them, and to the side of them, through a gap in the wood, the moonlight
found its way, but they themselves stood against the faint light,
superbly dark, and impenetrable, black water at their feet. Buntingford
pointed to them.

"They're fine, aren't they? This lake of course is artificial, and the
park was only made out of arable land a hundred years ago. I always
imagine these trees mark some dwelling-house, which has disappeared. They
used to be my chief haunt when I was a boy. There are four of them,
extraordinarily interwoven. I made a seat in one of them. I could see