"It will take her just twenty-four hours," said the girl stoutly. "He
used to terrify me, Mrs. Friend, when I was a little thing ... May I have
some tea, please? When he came to see us, I always knew before he had
been ten minutes in the room that my hair was coming down, or my shoes
were untied, or something dreadful was the matter with me. I can't
imagine how we shall get on, now that he is my guardian. I shall put him
in a temper twenty times a day."

"Ah, but the satisfactory thing now is that you will have to put up with
my remarks. I have a legal right now to say what I like."

"H'm," said Helena, demurring, "if there are legal rights nowadays."

"There, Mrs. Friend--you hear?" said Lord Buntingford, toying with his
cigarette, in the depths of a big chair, and watching his ward with eyes
of evident enjoyment. "You've got a Bolshevist to look after--a real
anarchist. I'm sorry for you."

"That's another of his peculiarities!" said the girl coolly, "queering
the pitch before one begins. You know you _might_ like me!--some people
do--but he'll never let you." And, bending forward, with her cup in both
hands, and her radiant eyes peering over the edge of it, she threw a most
seductive look at her new chaperon. The look seemed to say, "I've been
taking stock of you, and--well!--I think I shan't mind you."

Anyway, Mrs. Friend took it as a feeler and a friendly one. She stammered
something in reply, and then sat silent while guardian and ward plunged
into a war of chaff in which first the ward, but ultimately the guardian,
got the better. Lord Buntingford had more resource and could hold out
longer, so that at last Helena rose impatiently: