“If you will take my advice,” observed Mrs. Mayhew, “you will not put your finger in the pie. Leave it to time, and it will all come right.”
“I don’t agree with you there,” replied Geoffrey. “Leave all to time and it will all go wrong, unless time is assisted by kind friends who make such judicious arrangements as this walk for example. They require as much looking after as if it were a half-developed love affair.”
“Why should you busy yourself about them, an unfledged youngster like you?” asked the Honorable Mark peevishly.
Perfectly ignoring the question, Geoffrey stalked over to Helen, delightfully unconscious that an antimacassar was clinging to his coat-tails.
“Helen, now that we are here, ‘en champ clos’—or to translate it freely, Miss Ferrars and auntie are gone to dress, and the master and mistress are out—tell me honestly what you think about the business—will it all come right, or will he hook it off to the wars again?”
“What a way of expressing yourself! What polished ease! Well, if you want my opinion, you are quite welcome to it. I think the prospect is decidedly gloomy.”
“You do? Well, listen to me—I am certain that his cool indifference is only assumed—is that nicely expressed?—and, as to her, I daresay she is quite ready to kiss and be friends. Suppose you break the ice with her, and I’ll put out a feeler in his direction?”
“Helen,” almost shouted her husband, “don’t attempt to interfere, whatever Geoffrey may do—and he has assurance for twenty. But you’ll see he will only burn his fingers,” added Mr. Mayhew emphatically.
“Never mind him, Helen, you back me up,” urged Geoffrey eagerly.
Helen merely shook her head in reply.