"Marry, my dear child,—and bring up children," said Buntingford bluntly.
"That's the chief duty of Englishwomen just now."
Helena flushed and said nothing. They drifted nearer to the bank, and Helena perceived, at the end of a little creek, a magnificent group of yew trees, of which the lower branches were almost in the water. Behind them, and to the side of them, through a gap in the wood, the moonlight found its way, but they themselves stood against the faint light, superbly dark, and impenetrable, black water at their feet. Buntingford pointed to them.
"They're fine, aren't they? This lake of course is artificial, and the park was only made out of arable land a hundred years ago. I always imagine these trees mark some dwelling-house, which has disappeared. They used to be my chief haunt when I was a boy. There are four of them, extraordinarily interwoven. I made a seat in one of them. I could see everything and everybody on the lake, or in the garden; and nobody could see me. I once overheard a proposal!"
"Eavesdropper!" laughed Helena. "Shall we land?—and go and look at them?"
She gave a touch to the rudder. Then a shout rang out from the landing-stage on the other side of the water.
"Ah, that's Geoffrey," said Buntingford. "And I must really get back to the house—to see people off."
With a little vigorous rowing they were soon across the lake. Helena sat silent. She did not want Geoffrey—she did not want to reach the land—she had been happy on the water—why should things end?
* * * * *
Geoffrey reported that all was well with Lady Georgina, she had gone home, and then stepping into the boat as Buntingford stepped out, he began to push off.
"Isn't it rather late?" began Helena in a hesitating voice, half rising from her seat. "I promised Peter a supper dance."