"Well?--here I am."

"Shall we go and look at the lake? You might pull me about a little."

"Ripping!" said the youth joyously. "Won't you want a cloak?"

"No--it's so hot. Shall we ask Miss Luton?"

Peter made a face.

"Why should we?"

Helena laughed, and they went off together in the direction of a strip of
silver under distant trees on which the moon was shining.

French walked away towards the girlish figure now deserted.

Helena watched him out of the corner of her eyes, saw the girl's eager
greeting, and the disappearance of the two in the woody walk that
bordered the lawn. Then she noticed a man sitting by himself not far
away, with a newspaper on his knee.

"Suppose we take Mr. Horne, Peter?"

"Don't let's take anybody!" said the boy. "And anyway Horne's a nuisance
just now. He talks you dead with strikes--and nationalization--and labour
men--and all that rot. Can't we ever let it alone? I want to talk to
_you_, Helena. I say, you are ripping in that dress! You're just
_divine_, Helena!" The girl laughed, her sweetest, most rippling laugh.