know what--"

"Underhand! Philip! I say, Helena, I wonder whether you have any idea how
people who really know him think about Buntingford!"

"Oh, of course men back up men!"

"Stuff! It's really silly--abominable too--the way you talk of him--I
can't help saying it."

And this time it was Geoffrey's turn to look indignant. His long face
with its deeply set grey eyes, a rather large nose, and a fine brow under
curly hair, had flushed suddenly.

"If you can't help it, I suppose you must say it. But I don't know why I
should stay and listen," said Helena provokingly, making a movement as
though to rise. But he laid a hand on her dress:

"No, no, Helena, don't go--look here--do you ever happen to notice
Buntingford--when he's sitting quiet--and other people are talking
round him?"

"Not particularly." The tone was cold, but she no longer threatened
departure.

"Well, I just ask you--some time--to _watch_. An old friend of his
said to me the other day--'I often feel that Buntingford is the
saddest man I know.'"

"Why should he be?" asked Helena imperiously.