As he spoke, her eye caught a piano standing between the windows.

"Mummy's piano! Why, I thought we agreed it should be stored?"

"It seemed to me you might as well have it down here. We can easily hire
one for London."

"Awfully nice of you," murmured Helena. She opened it and stood with her
hand on the keys, looking out into the park, as though she pursued some
thought or memory of her own. It was a brilliant May morning, and the
windows were open. Helena's slim figure in a white dress, the reddish
touch in her brown hair, the lovely rounding of her cheek and neck, were
thrown sharply against a background of new leaf made by a giant beech
tree just outside. Mrs. Friend looked at Lord Buntingford. The thought
leaped into her mind--"How can he help making love to her himself?"--only
to be immediately chidden. Buntingford was not looking at Helena but at
his watch.

"Well, I must go and do some drivelling work before lunch. I have given
Mrs. Friend _carte blanche_, Helena. Order what you like, and if Mrs.
Mawson bothers you, send her to me. Geoffrey comes to-night, and we shall
be seven to-morrow."

He made for the door. Helena had turned suddenly at his last words, eye
and cheek kindling.

"Hm--" she said, under her breath--"So he has sent the telegram."

She left the window, and began to walk restlessly about the room, looking