"Of course, Cousin Philip, this will make a great change—in your life—and in mine."
He stood silently before her—preferring that she should make her own suggestions.
"I think—I ought to go away at once. Thanks to you—I have Mrs.
Friend—who is such a dear."
"There is the London house, Helena. You can make any use of it you like."
"No, I think not," she said resolutely. Then with an odd laugh which recalled an earlier Helena—"I don't expect Lucy Friend would want to have the charge of me in town; and you too—perhaps—would still be responsible—and bothered about me—if I were in your house."
Buntingford could not help a smile.
"My responsibility scarcely depends—does it—upon where you are?" Then his voice deepened. "I desire, wherever you are, to cherish and care for you—in your mother's place. I can't say what a joy it has been to me to have you here."
"No!—that's nonsense!—ridiculous!—" she said, suddenly breaking down, and dashing the tears from her eyes.
"It's very true," he said gently. "You've been the dearest pupil, and forgiven me all my pedantic ways. But if not London—I will arrange anything you wish."
She turned away, evidently making a great effort not to weep. He too was much agitated, and for a little while he busied himself with some letters on his table.