expression in her pretty eyes as of a lifted burden, and a new friendship
with life, which persons in Philip Buntingford's neighbourhood, when they
belonged to the race of the meek and gentle, were apt to put on. Peter
Dale hung about her, distributing tea and cake, and obedient to all her
wishes. More than once in these later weeks he had found, in the dumb
sympathy and understanding of the little widow, something that had been
to him like shadow in the desert. He was known to fame as one of the
smartest young aide-de-camps in the army, and fabulously rich besides.
His invitation cards, carelessly stacked in his Curzon Street rooms, were
a sight to see. But Helena had crushed his manly spirit. Sitting under
the shadow of Mrs. Friend, he liked to watch from a distance the
beautiful and dazzling creature who would have none of him. He was very
sorry for himself; but, all the same, he had had some rattling games of
tennis; the weather was divine, and he could still gaze at Helena; so
that although the world was evil, "the thrushes still sang in it."

Buntingford and Geoffrey were seen walking up from the lake when tea was
nearly over.

All eyes were turned to them.

"Now, then," said Julian Horne--"for the mystery, and its key. What a
pity mysteries are generally such frauds! They can't keep it up. They let
you down when you least expect it."

"Well, what news?" cried Helena, as the two men approached. Buntingford
shook his head.

"Not much to tell--very little, indeed."