Helen's life had dawned in the consciousness of love for this beautiful mother, whom she had worshipped with the ardent humility of a little dog.

Afterwards, with a vehemence as great, she had grown to hate her.

All her girlhood had been filled with struggles against her mother.

Sometimes for weeks they had not spoken to each other, epochs during which, completely indifferent though she was, Mrs.Buchanan had given herself the satisfaction of smartly boxing her daughter's ears when her mute, hostile presence too much exasperated her.

There had been no refuge for Helen with her father, a gloomy man, immersed in sport and study, nor in her brother Nigel, gay and pleasant though he was.