breakfast, and she made her way to the open window, while Helena was
still deep in the papers.

"You think so?" he said indifferently, standing beside her. "I'm afraid I
prefer London. But now on another matter--Do you mind taking up your
duties instanter?"

"Please--please let me!" she said, turning eagerly to him.

"Well--there is a cook-housekeeper somewhere--who, I believe, expects
orders. Do you mind giving them? Please do not look so alarmed! It is the
simplest matter in the world. You will appear to give orders. In reality
Mrs. Mawson will have everything cut and dried, and you will not dare to
alter a thing. But she expects you or me to pretend. And I should be
greatly relieved if you would do the pretending?"

"Certainly," murmured Mrs. Friend.

Lord Buntingford, looking at the terrace outside, made a sudden
gesture--half despair, half impatience.

"Oh, and there's old Fenn,--my head gardener. He's been here forty
years, and he sits on me like an old man of the sea. I know what he
wants. He's coming up to ask me about something he calls a herbaceous
border. You see that border there?"--he pointed--"Well, I barely know a
peony from a cabbage. Perhaps you do?" He turned towards her hopefully;
and Mrs. Friend felt the charm, as many other women had felt it before
her, of the meditative blue eyes, under the black and heavy brow. She
shook her head smiling.