"Well, it is very kind of you to have told me so frankly, Helena--because
now I shall prevent it. It is the last thing in the world that your
mother would have wished, that you should be seen at the Ritz alone with
Lord Donald. I therefore have her authority with me in asking you either
to write or telegraph to him again to-night, giving up the plan. Better
still if you would depute me to do it. It is really a very foolish
plan--if I may say so."

"Why?"

"Because--well, there are certain things a girl of nineteen can't do
without spoiling her chances in life--and one of them is to be seen about
alone with a man like Lord Donald."

"And again I ask--why?"

"I really can't discuss his misdoings with you, Helena. Won't you trust
me in the matter? I thought I had made it plain that having been devoted
to your mother, I was prepared to be equally devoted to you, and wished
you to be as happy and free as possible."

"That's an appeal to sentiment," said Helena, resolutely. "Of course I
know it all sounds horrid. You've been as nice as possible; and anybody
who didn't sympathize with my views would think me a nasty, ungrateful
toad. But I'm not going to be coaxed into giving them up, any more than
I'm going to be bullied."

Lord Buntingford surveyed her. The habitual slight pucker--as though of
anxiety or doubt--in his brow was much in evidence. It might have meant