think them old-fashioned!"

"What--Byron?--Shelley? They're never old-fashioned!"

"I never read much of them. But--I love Tennyson--and Mrs. Browning."

Helena made a face--

"Oh, I don't care a hang for her. She's so dreadfully pious and
sentimental. I laughed till I cried over 'Aurora Leigh.' But now--French
things! If you lived all that time in France, you must have read French
poetry. Alfred de Musset?--Madame de Noailles?"

Mrs. Friend shook her head.

"We went to lectures. I learnt a great deal of Racine--a little Victor
Hugo--and Rostand--because the people I boarded with took me to
'Cyrano'!"

"Ah, Rostand--" cried Helena, springing up. "Well, of course he's _vieux
jeu_ now. The best people make mock of him. Julian does. I don't care--he
gives me thrills down my back, and I love him. But then _panache_ means a
good deal to me. And Julian doesn't care a bit. He despises people who
talk about glory and honour--and that kind of thing. Well--Lucy--"

She stopped mischievously, her head on one side.

"Sorry!--but it slipped out. Lucy--good-night."

Mrs. Friend hurriedly caught hold of her.