"Oh, no, you never get the worst of it!" said Lord Buntingford, laughing, as he handed her the cake. "You couldn't if you tried."
She looked up sharply. Then she turned to Mrs. Friend.
"That's the way my guardian treats me, Mrs. Friend. How can I take him seriously?"
"I think Lord Buntingford meant it as a compliment—didn't he?" said Mrs.
Friend shyly. She knew, alack, that she had no gift for repartee.
"Oh, no, he never pays compliments—least of all to me. He has a most critical, fault-finding mind. Haven't you, Cousin Philip?"
"What a charge!" said Lord Buntingford, lighting another cigarette. "It won't take Mrs. Friend long to find out its absurdity."
"It will take her just twenty-four hours," said the girl stoutly. "He used to terrify me, Mrs. Friend, when I was a little thing … May I have some tea, please? When he came to see us, I always knew before he had been ten minutes in the room that my hair was coming down, or my shoes were untied, or something dreadful was the matter with me. I can't imagine how we shall get on, now that he is my guardian. I shall put him in a temper twenty times a day."
"Ah, but the satisfactory thing now is that you will have to put up with my remarks. I have a legal right now to say what I like."
"H'm," said Helena, demurring, "if there are legal rights nowadays."
"There, Mrs. Friend—you hear?" said Lord Buntingford, toying with his cigarette, in the depths of a big chair, and watching his ward with eyes of evident enjoyment. "You've got a Bolshevist to look after—a real anarchist. I'm sorry for you."