"You don't seem to care for ancestors?" Phil suggested.
"Oh, yes, lots—generically," she answered. "They built cathedrals and churches like this and had a horrid good old human time in the doing of it. As for one's own ancestors, it depends upon how much they have done for you."
"You are quite surpassing yourself at iconoclasm to-day," said her sister gently and sympathetically.
Helen nodded as if she knew it, and could not help herself.
"Everything depends upon the flavour of the grapes," she replied. The sisters were searching each other's eyes in a new and surprising way to both. The grapes were sweet to Henriette; they were sour to Helen.
"It is the hard work last night," said Henriette, slipping her arm around her sister. "Those charcoals may come right yet."
Helen was silent, unresisting, unresponsive, her face like ill-moulded clay, and Henriette a personification of apology to Phil.
"According to story-books, Peter may yet fall on his knees and beg you to take his fortune," she added to Phil. "So much for Peter Smithers. He doesn't worry you, does he? It's delightful having seventeenth cousins like you."
"And like you!" he replied to the challenge. "And you will not let me miss the train."
They had time to walk and his bag had already gone. Helen was subdued, remaining with her uncle behind Phil and Henriette.