"He might have held out a little longer," thought Helena. "When shall I ever get a serious word from her?" thought French.
Slowly she descended the long and winding hill leading to the village. From the few scattered cottages and farms in sight, flags were fluttering out. Groups of school children were scattered along the road, waving little flags and singing. Over the wide valley below her, with its woody hills and silver river, floated great cloud-shadows, chasing and chased by the sun. There were wild roses in the hedges, and perfume in every gust of wind. The summer was at its height, and the fire and sap of it were running full-tilt in Helena's pulses.
Far down the winding road she saw at last a man on a motor bicycle—bare-headed, and long-bodied.
Up he came, and soon was near enough to wave to her, while Helena was still scolding her own emotions. When he flung himself off beside her, she saw at once that he had come in an exultant mood expecting triumph. And immediately something perverse in her—or was it merely the old primeval instinct of the pursued maiden—set itself to baffle him.
"Very nice to see you!" she smiled, as she gave him a passive hand—"but why aren't you in the Mall?"
"My Sovereign had not expressed any burning desire for my presence. Can't we go to-night and feed a bonfire?"
"Several, if you like. I have watched the building of three. But it will rain."
"That won't matter," he said joyously. "Nothing will matter!" And again his ardent look challenged in her the Eternal Feminine.
"I don't agree. I hate a wet mackintosh dripping into my boots, and
Cousin Philip won't see any fun in it if it rains."
He drew up suddenly.