"Yes," said Helena reflectively. "Of course I see that. It's awkward. I suppose you promised and vowed a great many things—like one's godmothers and godfathers?"
"No, I didn't promise anything—except that I would go out with you, make myself useful to you, if I could—and help you with foreign languages."
"Goody," said Helena. "Do you really know French—and German?" The tone was incredulous. "I wish I did."
"Well, I was two years in France, and a year and a half in Germany when I was a girl. My parents wanted me to be a governess."
"And then you married?"
"Yes—just the year before the war."
"And your husband was killed?" The tone was low and soft. Mrs. Friend gave a mute assent. Suddenly Helena laid an arm round the little woman's neck.
"I want you to be friends with me—will you? I hated the thought of a chaperon—I may as well tell you frankly. I thought I should probably quarrel with you in a week. That was before I arrived. Then when I saw you, I suddenly felt—'I shall like her! I'm glad she's here—I shan't mind telling her my affairs.' I suppose it was because you looked so—well, so meek and mild—so different from me—as though a puff would blow you away. One can't account for those things, can one? Do tell me your Christian name! I won't call you by it—if you don't like it."
"My name is Lucy," said Mrs. Friend faintly. There was something so seductive in the neighbourhood of the girl's warm youth and in the new sweetness of her voice that she could not make any further defence of her "dignity."
"I might have guessed Lucy. It's just like you," said the girl triumphantly. "Wordsworth's Lucy—do you remember her?—'A violet by a mossy stone'—That's you exactly. I adore Wordsworth. Do you care about poetry?"