"No."
"Then ask Martha to put a lamp in the school-room, and set to work at once. We shall not expect to see you this evening."
"I won't set to work at once—I won't, I won't, I won't," muttered Helen under her breath. Her passion was rising; but for her father's sake, her father who had been so good to her, and who she dimly understood was responsible for her lapse from duty that afternoon, she strove to control herself. Knowing that her only chance was in escape, she made a dash at the door; but in so doing the top of her violin came into contact with a small china-laden table, and a valuable Dresden figure fell to the ground with a crash.
Mrs. Desmond, fairly roused from her wonted calm, rushed forward, uttering a low cry. Her china was very dear to her. She suffered no one but herself to touch it, and it was her boast that each piece had in her keeping remained as intact as it had been in her grandmother's time.
"Oh, Helen!" she cried, "what have you done? My poor little shepherd is broken. You might as well have broken the shepherdess too. The pair is spoilt—utterly spoilt!"
"Perhaps it can be mended," suggested the kind-hearted colonel, coming forward. He was really touched by his wife's distress, and also not a little uneasy about Helen's share in the disaster.
"Mended!" repeated Mrs. Desmond with rising irritation. "Do you suppose that I would have a piece of mended china in my drawing-room? No, the mischief is irreparable—irreparable."
As she spoke she gathered up the broken fragments tenderly, while a tear fell upon her white hand.
"Not irreparable, surely, my dear," persisted the colonel with characteristic want of tact. "I have seen plenty of figures like these in old china shops. To-morrow, first thing, Helen shall make amends for her carelessness by—"
"Ah, Helen!" interrupted Mrs. Desmond, who had regarded the first part of the colonel's sentence as a confession of ignorance too gross for argument, but who was recalled by the mention of Helen's name to the enormity of the girl's offence. "Helen—"