He looked at her with a friendly wonder, and she, flushing deeper, was
glad to see him claimed by a lively girl on his left, while she fell
back on Mr. Parish, the agent, who, however, seemed to be absorbed in
the amazing--and agreeable--fact that Lord Buntingford, though he drank
no wine himself, had yet some Moet-et-Charidon of 1904 left to give to
his guests. Mr. Parish, as he sipped it, realized that the war was
indeed over.

But, all the time, he gave a certain amount of scrutiny to the little
lady beside him. So she was to be "companion" to Miss Helena
Pitstone--to prevent her getting into scrapes--if she could. Lord
Buntingford had told him that his cousin, Lady Mary Chance, had chosen
her. Lady Mary had reported that "companions" were almost as difficult
to find as kitchenmaids, and that she had done her best for him in
finding a person of gentle manners and quiet antecedents. "Such people
will soon be as rare as snakes in Ireland"--had been the concluding
sentence in Lady Mary's letter, according to Lord Buntingford's laughing
account of it. Ah, well, Lady Mary was old-fashioned. He hoped the young
widow might be useful; but he had his doubts. She looked a weak vessel
to be matching herself with anything so handsome and so pronounced as
the young lady opposite.

Why, the young lady was already quarrelling with her guardian! For the
whole table had suddenly become aware of a gust in the neighbourhood of
Lord Buntingford--a gust of heated talk--although the only heated person
seemed to be Miss Pitstone. Lord Buntingford was saying very little; but
whatever he did say was having a remarkable effect on his neighbour.
Then, before the table knew what it was all about, it was over. Lord
Buntingford had turned resolutely away, and was devoting himself to
conversation with Lady Cynthia, while his ward was waging a fresh war of