"Pam, I've got something to tell you."

Norman had waited until they were away from the glare of the garden, and the green gloom of the summer woods was all about them, cool and secret and inviting to confidences.

He had not changed much since those days of boyhood, though he was now nearly twenty-five, and the last years of the war had caught him, and taught him some things that he wanted to forget, as well as much that had strengthened the fibre of which he was made. There was a boyish atmosphere about him still. He was tall and slim, and his fair hair, which he tried to keep plastered to his head, was always breaking away from the bounds of its cosmetics and dropping a skein over his forehead. Nothing he had undergone had affected that bright light-hearted charm of his boyhood. He seemed to be rejoicing in his youth and his strength, and in all the world about him, which, in spite of the shadows that still hung over it, he at least found as good as the young men of a generation earlier had found their more untroubled world.

Pamela was very young still, and very pretty. Her hair and her colouring were as fair as Norman's, whom she resembled in a cousinly way. Indeed the resemblances between them were more than superficial. They had the same eager pleasure in whatever life they found about them. They thought alike in most things to which they put their adventurous minds, and to neither of them did it seem odd that Pamela, who had not long since left the schoolroom, and had grown up under the shadow that had dulled and limited the life of her kind, should claim an equality of opinion with Norman, who was six years older, and knew so much more than the generality of young men had ever known before.

One may pause for a moment to note this unexpected attribute of those whose early years of manhood, instead of being passed in the pursuits and interests, educative or otherwise, adapted to their youth, had been given to the war, of which they had borne the ultimate brunt. The years which divide us from it are passing away. The social phenomena of each successive stage of the long struggle, and those that have succeeded it, too familiar to call for much notice at the time, will become blurred, and half forgotten even by those who were part of them; and in after years they will be difficult to gauge. This, among them, is not likely to be seen as it was, when the years have increased, and later generations try to recapture the spirit of the great war: that the young men, and the older men too, who lived through it, and came out of it whole, or not too broken to make what they would of their lives, put it to all effective purposes out of their minds. While it was going on they did the work appointed to them as if it were no more than any other work proper to their years, and pursued their recreations with an added zest. And when at last they were released, they crowded back into the various ways of life open to them, and put it all behind them as just an experience like any other which might have come to them. It could never be forgotten, but it was not to come between them and the life to which they had returned; and the interests of that life were exactly what they would have been if it had never happened.

So Norman Eldridge, who would have gone to a university in the ordinary way, but for the war, was at Cambridge now, three years later than his time, and with his three years of service behind him. His enjoyment of undergraduate life was even greater than it would have been in normal times, for it was a more conscious enjoyment, and he could gauge his opportunities better. Games, in which he excelled, though he had not quite succeeded in gaining his hoped-for Blue for cricket, did not take up even the greater part of his attention. He was a lover of the arts, and found Cambridge a delectable place in which to pursue them. He had plenty of money at his disposal, and social life was open to him at its widest. When term-time was over he could go where he liked, and enjoy himself as he pleased. And at this time he was enjoying himself to the full.

"Pam, I've got something to tell you," he said as they went down into the wood together.

"Is it the real thing this time?" she asked, with a quick smiling glance at his face.

"Oh, none of the others have been anything—just fancies—boyish fancies, you know."

He laughed gaily. He was very good to look at, with his close-cropped shapely head thrown back on the firm column of his neck. Pam smiled up at him again, with a sort of proprietary fondness. She admired him, as she had always admired him ever since she could remember, and had never met a young man whom she thought his equal. And it was a source of pride to her that he was one of her own family—to all intents and purposes a brother. Poor Hugo, over whose death she had cried, as something strange and unexpected and infinitely pathetic, had been a kind brother to her—she liked to remember that the last time she had said good-bye to him, never to see him again, he had given her ten pounds to spend as she liked—but he had never made a confidante of her, as Norman had always done. She had known very little of Hugo's life as it was spent away from Hayslope, but she thought she knew all about Norman's life. He had fallen in love once or twice, and had always told her everything about it. Hugo seemed to have gone through life without falling in love. Poor Hugo! She could not but believe, from her intimate talks with Norman, that he had died without acquiring the crown of his manhood. Norman was attractive under the influence of his love affairs, and she was not surprised that he had them continually, though she saw quite plainly that without some such guidance as she was fortunately able to give him he might have got into trouble with them. Men were so foolish where girls were concerned. Even the best of them, who had a lot to give—like Norman—fell in love with girls who were in no way their equals. But it never did to tell them so. Give them all sympathy and affection, and the affair died away of itself. So it had been three times with Norman already, and Pamela, who had been a little alarmed over the first affair, was confirmed in the belief that she had dealt most wisely with each situation as it had arisen. Still, the genuine lasting emotion must come into play sooner or later. There must be, somewhere, a girl who was worthy of such a rare prize as Norman's love, and Pamela had always told herself that when that girl was found she would welcome her whole-heartedly.

"Yes, you've been in love with love," she said impressively; and they both laughed, for this was a quotation.

"Trying my wings," said Norman. "They were all dears, but there wasn't enough to them when it came down to the things one is interested in."

"Well, now I'm free to speak," said Pamela, "I'll confess that they seemed to me a set of brainless idiots. I hope the new one has got some intelligence. It would be such an advantage if you had to spend your life with her. She's pretty, of course. Have you got a photograph of her?"

"Not a proper one. I'm not up to that point yet."

"Worshipping at a distance?"

"No, not exactly. We've danced together a lot in London, and been the greatest pals. Really, I've been rather clever about it. She's very young—only in her first season. She's out to have a jolly good time, but her life isn't only amusement. She's slogging hard at the piano. She'd like to be a pro, but of course her people won't let her."

"Why not?"

"Oh, well, her father's a Duke. She's Lady Margaret Joliffe. I dare say you've seen pictures of her in the papers. But they don't do her justice. She's perfectly lovely. Oh, I've got it terrible bad this time, Pam."

"Yes, I've seen her pictures. She's very pretty indeed," said Pam. "And Jim knows her. He says she's very clever."

The time seemed to have come at last, then. If Norman succeeded in winning a girl like this, nobody could say he was not getting as good as he gave, not even Pam, who thought that hardly anybody would be good enough for him. Yet she did not experience the quick sense of pleasure which she had persuaded herself would be her response whenever Norman did come to announce the real thing.

"Oh, clever!" repeated Norman. "That's not the word for her. She knows. She's got extraordinary perceptions for a girl of her age. It isn't only music. It's books, and art—everything that's jolly and interesting. And she's such fun with it all. No more of a highbrow than you are. In fact, she's the only girl I've ever met who sees things in the way that you do."

Pamela did feel some pleasure at this. "That's topping," she said. "Of course prettiness isn't everything. I suppose the others were pretty, except the girl with a squint; but they—"

"Oh, come now, Pam, she hadn't got a squint. She—"

"Well, a slight cast in the eye, then; and some people think it an added beauty. But they all seemed to have the brains of rabbits. I was beginning to think that you never would fall in love with anybody that had got beyond Short Division. Of course I'm glad you've found somebody intelligent at last. But do you mean to say that you never got beyond talking about Hanbert and Ravel and Augustus John with her?"

Norman looked at her with a slightly pained expression. "Pam dear!" he expostulated. "Why this acidulation?"

Pamela laughed, and they began again. "Well, it's really rather exciting," she said. "Do tell me about it, Norman. You haven't told me anything yet. When did you catch fire?"

His face took on a beatific expression. "Well, I'd held off just a trifle," he said. "We'd had a topping time together here and there. She always seemed to be pleased to see me, but—well, there was generally the old Duchess somewhere in the background; she's not really old, of course, but— You see, it seemed to be flying a bit high for me. I was at school with Cardiff—her brother—and he was in the Regiment too for a bit."

"Whose brother? The Duchess's?"

"No. Margaret's."

"Do you call her Margaret?"

"Well, I was going to tell you. I lunched with them at the Harrow match. Duchess rather cordial. Duke ditto. He used to be a bit of a cricketer, and he knew I'd got my Eleven at Eton. I was feeling a bit bucked with myself—seemed to be getting a sort of domestic hold, you know. So I plumped myself down beside her, without being invited to do so, and she didn't turn me away. I made her laugh. I believe I made them all laugh at our end of the table. I was feeling good and happy, you know, and rather let myself go. So after lunch I asked her to perambulate with me; and we perambulated. I don't think it was quite in the bargain. I could amuse them as a bright young lad, while they were stuffing, but I mustn't take liberties. She gave a sort of quick look at the old Dutch, and said: 'Yes, come along; we'll run away.' The old Dutch caught us with her eye as we were twinkling off, and called out, 'Margaret!' But Margaret wasn't taking any, so we had a very pleasant half-hour together, and she gave me most of her dates."

"Most of her dates!"

"Oh, we weren't eating 'em out of a paper bag. I found out most of the places she was going to when they left London. I don't anticipate an invitation to Balmoral, or anything of that sort; but Goodwood's open to everybody, and there are one or two houses in Scotland I think I can wangle myself into later on, and there's a chance of her going to the Canterbury cricket week. If she does, Norman Eldridge will also take part in that festival. Oh, it's not over yet, by any means. By the time I have to resume my studies at Cambridge University, I hope—"

"Yes, but what about—?"

"Wait a minute. You're in such a hurry. I took her back to the Dukeries. They were in a box, and fortunately Cardiff was there. He'd been off on a little line of his own at lunch, and I hadn't seen him for some time. His welcome was obstreperous. He was feeling good and happy himself, owing to his own particular fairy smiling on him, I suppose. He'd brought her with him. She was some peach."

"Oh, never mind about her. Stick to the point."

"I did. I took advantage of the genial atmosphere, and brought the old Dutch into it. She didn't want to laugh at first, but I made her. I wanted to remove the impression that I was a sort of snatch-lady pirate, but only wanted to play with them all together. I could tell the point where I succeeded. Soon kind of unhitched herself generally, and—"

"Oh, do come to the point, Norman. You're getting as long-winded as one of the old almshouse women. When did you call Margaret Margaret? That's the important thing."

"Yes, I know it is. It was a thrill, Pam. I didn't do it as if I'd done it by accident. I did it loud and bold—at least, not loud; I thought it would try the old Dutch too much. But it was all quite simple. When we said good-bye, I looked at her straight, and said: 'Good-bye, Margaret.'"

"I think it was rather bold—if not crude."

"No, dear; not crude. Not crude at all. I put a world of meaning into it—the auld hackneyed phrase, which may mean so little and may mean so much."

Pamela laughed. "I don't believe you're in love with her at all, if you can make fun of it," she said.

"How little you know, Pam! I jest to hide my emotions. I've fed on that sweet moment ever since."

"You've told me of other moments rather like it. I suppose her eyes dropped before yours."

"They did not. That's where she's different from all other girls—except you."

"Thanks awfully, Norman. I'll try and keep my eyes from dropping if it ever happens to me. But from what you've said before I thought they ought to drop. What did she do then—or say?"

"She looked at me straight, and said: 'Good-bye, Norman,' with a little half smile."

Pamela considered this. "That was the end, then," she said.

"Yes, but what an end, Pam! It was the beginning too. You can see what a thrill it was, can't you?"

"Yes, I think I can," she said slowly.

"Mind you, this was the very first time. Up to then there hadn't been a word or a sign. That's what makes it something to remember, you know. Oh, Pam! It's a heavenly feeling being in love. And it's such a score having somebody like you to tell it to. I don't know who I should have told if I hadn't had you—my tailor, I dare say; I shouldn't have been able to keep it to myself, and I owe him something which it isn't quite convenient to pay just yet. I told her about you, you know."

"Did you?"

"Oh, yes. I always do talk about you when I get really confidential."

"What did you tell her? And what did she say?"

"She was very sweet about you, and said you were just the sort of girl she would like to have for a friend. A lot of her friends were such ninnies."

"I never meet that sort of girl now," said Pamela with a sigh. "If only I hadn't had flu when Auntie Eleanor asked me to stay with you in London, I suppose I should have met her."

"Yes, that was jolly bad luck. We should all three have had a jolly good time together."

Pamela laughed again. "Perhaps I should have had somebody of my own," she said. "I'm old enough now, you know, Norman."

"Of course you are. You're just the same age as Margaret, as a matter of fact. You'd have had 'em swarming. But there are precious few of them I should think good enough for you. I say, old girl, what about Jim Horsham?"

"Well, what about him?"

"I don't think he's good enough, you know, though he is a Viscount."

"I like Jim. I've known him all my life."

"He's a good chap, but he's a desperate dull dog. Don't go falling in love with Jim, Pam."

"I'm not likely to fall in love with him."

"It occurred to me this afternoon that he showed some slight inclination to fall in love with you. There was a sort of concentrated heaviness on him whenever he was with you. I suppose he'd sparkle if he could, under emotion, but as he can't, he's got to be duller than usual. Perhaps there's nothing in it. But I shouldn't blame him if he did fall in love with you. In fact, I should think it rather cheek, in a way, if he didn't. He's not likely to meet anybody more worth falling in love with. But it isn't good enough, Pam."

"Well, I shouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Jim isn't my ideal, though he's a nice old thing, and I think you're too superior about him altogether. Did you know Fred Comfrey had come home?"

"Fred Comfrey!" Norman frowned. "I shouldn't think you're likely to fall in love with him," he said.

"Oh, bother falling in love! I'm leaving that to you at present. But there aren't many people to play with about here just now. He makes another one. He's much improved."

"Oh, Pam, he's an awful creature. Surely, you're not going to have anything to do with him!"

"I used to hate him; but he's quite different now. I should never have known him. You know he went out to China, before you came to live here, and he never came home until he joined up for the war. He did very well in the war—got his Commission quite soon, and the Military Cross. He was badly wounded too, and isn't fit yet. I'm sorry for him; and really, Norman, he's quite nice. Anyhow, we couldn't not have him to play with us, because of Mr. and Mrs. Comfrey. I expect Auntie Eleanor will ask him here too. He only came yesterday."

"Well, I suppose you've got to give everybody his chance. He was an unmitigated beast as a boy, but perhaps he's improved. He couldn't very well have got any worse. Still, it does rather stick in my gizzard that he should be making friends with you, as I suppose he'll want to. I should be a bit cautious if I were you, Pam. After all, one does know something of what a man is, when one has known him as a boy. I should say that Mr. Fred Comfrey was a nasty specimen, even if he has succeeded in disguising it, as he used not to. How long is he staying here?"

"I think he may stay in England altogether. He has done very well in business in China, and thinks he may be able to carry on in London."

"I wish he'd stayed in China. But how long is he staying in Hayslope?"

"For some time, I think. He had to go back to China, directly he was demobbed, and hasn't had a holiday since the war. You ought to be nice to him, Norman. Poor Hugo liked him. He talked to me very nicely about Hugo this morning."

"When did you see him?"

"After church. Mother asked him to lunch, but he thought he'd better go home."

"He wasn't at all a good friend for Hugo, you know."

"Perhaps not; but that's so long ago. Hugo improved too, afterwards."

Norman acquiesced perfunctorily. He knew that Hugo had not at all improved, afterwards, but also that Pamela didn't. "Well, I'll try to forget what he used to be like," he said. "But don't let's talk about him any more. Let's talk about Margaret."