And with that she vanished.
Helena was going blindly through the hall, towards her own room, when
Peter Dale emerged from the shadows. He caught her as she passed.
"Let me have just a word, Helena! You know, everything will be broken up here. I only want to say my mother would just adore to have you for the season. We'd all make it nice for you—we'd be your slaves—just let me wire to Mater to-morrow morning."
"No, thank you, Peter. Please—please! don't stop me! I want to see
Mrs. Friend."
"Helena, do think of it!" he implored.
"No, I can't. It's impossible!" she said, almost fiercely. "Let me go,
Peter! Good-night!"
He stood, a picture of misery, at the foot of the stairs watching her run up. Then at the top she turned, ran down a few steps again, kissed her hand to him, and vanished, the bright buckles on her shoes flashing along the gallery overhead.
But in the further corner of the gallery she nearly ran into the arms of
Geoffrey French, who was waiting for her outside her room.
"Is it too late, Helena—for me to have just a few words in your sitting-room?"
He caught hold of her. The light just behind him showed him a tense and frowning Helena.