"But I'm cold.

Peter, will you race me to the house?
Give me a fair start!" Peter eagerly placed her, and then--a maiden flying and a young god pursuing--they had soon drawn the eyes and laughter of all the other guests, who cheered as the panting Helena, winner by a foot, dashed through the drawing-room window into the house.
Helena and Mrs.Friend had been discussing the evening,--Helena on the floor, in a white dressing-gown, with her hair down her back.

She had amused herself with a very shrewd analysis--not too favourable--of Geoffrey French's character and prospects, and had rushed through an eloquent account of Peter's performances in the war; she had mocked at Lady Maud's conventionalities, and mimicked the "babe's" simpering manner with young men; she had enquired pityingly how Mrs.Friend had got on with the old Canon who had taken her in to dinner, and had launched into rather caustic and, to Mrs.Friend's ear, astonishing criticisms of "Cousin Philip's wine"-- which Mrs.Friend had never even dreamt of tasting.

But of Cousin Philip himself there was not a word.

Mrs.Friend knew there had been an interview between them; but she dared not ask questions.