"Yes. Let me help you, do, dearest."
They wandered off to the kitchens, and while they were seated at the kitchen-table, sipping tea, side by side, Sarah said:
"Now if you want an idea, I've got a really good one for you."
"For me? What sort of an idea?"
"I'll tell you. You know Mrs. Wiltshire is dead."
"I don't. I didn't even know there was a Mrs. Wiltshire."
"Well, there was, and there isn't any longer. Mrs. Wiltshire was the main social prop of the old rector. And the annual concert of the St. Luke's Guild has always been held at her house, down at Shawport, you know. Awfully poky! But it was the custom since the Flood, and no one ever dared to hint at a change. Now the concert was to have been next week but one, and she's just gone and died, and the rector is wondering where he can hold it. I met him this morning. Why don't you let him hold it here? That would be a splendid way of opening your house—Hall, I beg its pardon. And you could introduce the beautiful eyes of your German butler to the entire neighbourhood. Of course, I don't know whether Mr. Ollerenshaw would like it."
"Oh!" said Helen, without blenching, "uncle would do as I wish."
She mused, in silence, during a number of seconds.
"The idea doesn't appeal to you?" Sarah queried, disappointment in her tones.