"Suppose we take Mr. Horne, Peter?"
"Don't let's take anybody!" said the boy. "And anyway Horne's a nuisance just now. He talks you dead with strikes—and nationalization—and labour men—and all that rot. Can't we ever let it alone? I want to talk to you, Helena. I say, you are ripping in that dress! You're just divine, Helena!" The girl laughed, her sweetest, most rippling laugh.
"Go on like that, Peter. You can't think how nice it sounds—especially after Geoffrey's been lecturing for all he's worth."
"Lecturing? Oh well, if it comes to that, I've got my grievance too,
Helena. We'll have it out, when I've found the boat."
"Forewarned!" said Helena, still laughing. "Perhaps I won't come."
"Oh, yes, you will," said the boy confidently. "I believe you know perfectly well what it's about. You've got a guilty conscience, Miss Helena!"
Helena said nothing, till they had pushed the boat out from the reeds and the water-lilies, and she was sitting with the steering ropes in her hands opposite a boy in his shirt sleeves, with the head and face of a cherub, and the spare frame of an athlete, who was devouring her with his eyes.
"Are you quite done with the Army, Peter?"
"Quite. Got out a month ago. You come to me, Helena, if you want any advice about foreign loans—eh? I can tell you a thing or two."
"Are you going to be very rich?"