Helena fell back on the bilberry stalk, to gain time.
—"Because—" resumed Peter—"it's quite clear the Beechmark situation is all bust up. Philip's got an idiot-boy to look after—with Cynthia Welwyn in constant attendance. I don't see any room for you there, Helena!"
"Neither do I," said Helena, quietly. "You needn't tell me that."
"Well, then, what are you going to do?"
"You forget, Peter, that I possess the dearest and nicest little chaperon. I can roam the world where I please—without making any scandals."
"You'll always make scandals—"
"Scandals, Peter!" protested Helena.
"Well, victories, wherever you go—unless somebody has you pretty tightly in hand. But you and I—both know a man—that would be your match!"
He had moved, so as to stand firmly across the little path that ran from Helena's seat to the inn. She began to fidget—to drop one foot, that had been twisted under her, to the ground, as though "on tiptoe for a flight."
"It's time for supper, Peter. Mrs. Friend will think we're drowned. And I caught such a beautiful dish of trout yesterday,—all for your benefit! There's a dear man here who puts on the worms."