"I can't tell you. No one can. It's just what those people think who know
him best. Well, that's one fact about him--that his _men_ friends feel
they could no more torment a wounded soldier, than worry Buntingford--if
they could help it. Then there are other facts that no one knows unless
they've worked in Philip's office, where all the men clerks and all the
women typists just adore him! I happen to know a good deal about it. I
could tell you things--"

"For Heaven's sake, don't!" cried Helena impatiently. "What does it
matter? He may be a saint--with seven haloes--for those that don't cross
him. But _I_ want my freedom!"--a white foot beat the ground
impatiently--"and he stands in the way."

"Freedom to compromise yourself with a scoundrel like Donald! What _can_
you know about such a man--compared with what Philip knows?"

"That's just it--I _want_ to know--" said Helena in her most stubborn
voice. "This is a world, now, in which we've all got to know,--both the
bad and the good of it. No more taking it on trust from other people! Let
us learn it for ourselves."

"Helena!--you're quite mad!" said the young man, exasperated.

"Perhaps I am. But it's a madness you can't cure." And springing to her
feet, she sent a call across the lawn--"Peter!" A slim boy who was
walking beside the "babe" of seventeen, some distance away, turned
sharply at the sound, and running across the grass pulled up in front
of Helena.