"And you won't do anything hasty--about Lord Donald?"

"Oh, I can't promise anything. One must stand by one's friends. One
simply must. But I'll take care Cousin Philip doesn't blame you."

"If I'm no use, you know--I can't stay."

"No use to Cousin Philip, you mean, in policing me?" said Helena, with a
good-humoured laugh. "Well, we'll talk about it again to-morrow.
Good-night--Lucy!"

The sly gaiety of the voice was most disarming.

"Good-night, Miss Pitstone."

"No, that won't do. It's absurd! I never ask people to call me Helena,
unless I like them. I certainly never expected--there, I'll be
frank!--that I should want to ask you--the very first night too. But I do
want you to. Please, Lucy, call me Helena. _Please_!"

Mrs. Friend did as she was told.

"Sleep well," said Helena from the door. "I hope the housemaid's put
enough on your bed, and given you a hot water-bottle? If anything scares
you in the night, wake me--that is, if you can!" She disappeared.

Outside Mrs. Friend's door the old house was in darkness, save for a
single light in the hall, which burnt all night. The hall was the feature
of the house. A gallery ran round it supported by columns from below, and