Summer rain was falling heavily, and a little party was gathered together in the schoolroom at Hayslope Hall. This was a large room on the second floor, with windows looking two ways, one on to the park, two on to the garden and the woods beyond. There was a glimpse from these windows, through the trees, of some of the roofs and chimneys of the Grange on its opposite hill; and across the park the tower of the church and part of the village could be seen, with a wide stretch of country beyond, and Pershore Castle some miles away, to give accent to a characteristic scene of wooded undulating country, not yet tainted with the blight of industrialism. It was sometimes said that this old nursery, now the schoolroom, was the nicest room in the house. There were no such views to be obtained from those of the lower floors, but the views did not make up the whole of its charm. It had that of all rooms in an old house that have been devoted to the use of children. Changes in furniture or decoration come to them slowly. Everything that they contain has made its indelible impression upon the minds of those who have occupied them in the most receptive years of their lives, and are woven into the texture of their memories. They have witnessed the troubles of childhood; but these fade away and are forgotten, or remembered only as part of the immensely significant and varied experiences of that age, merging into the rest and carry no sting. They do not associate themselves with graver troubles, and to those who came back to them they seem to be a refuge from all the ills of life, so innocent are the pursuits with which they are connected, so free are they from the cares and forebodings associated with other familiar rooms.

This note of freedom and innocence was grateful to Fred Comfrey, who had been welcomed to this room by Alice and Isabelle, its present occupants, Miss Baldwin acquiescing. Fred had "taken notice" of Alice and Isabelle, for reasons not difficult to gauge. He had never cared much for children, and one would have said that he had no power to interest or attract them. But his absence of art probably recommended him to these two, who would not have liked him so well if he had been either jocular or condescending with them. He treated them in the same way as he treated Judith, who was grown up. Judith did not like him, but they did, and presently began to make use of him.

On this wet Saturday morning, when there were no lessons to be done, they were engaged in restoring an old toy theatre, which had once belonged to Hugo. Alice had composed a play, which was to be acted by figures designed by Isabelle. These had been cut out with a fretsaw, and coloured; and together they had glued them on to their stands. But the theatre itself, after having lain hidden for years in a lumber room, needed more serious repair than came within their scope. Fred was a godsend in this predicament, and was doing all that was necessary, with a capable hand. Pamela and the children were helping, arrayed all three in blue overalls, which as worn by Pamela seemed to Fred to be the most attractive costume that a girl could wear. Miss Baldwin sat apart, busy with needlework on her own account. Her presence had no effect upon the flow of chatter. She hardly came into the children's lives except as a reminder and concomitant of duty, and they were well accustomed to ignore her when amusement was on foot. Judith also sat apart, curled up on the deep shabby old sofa with a book, and oblivious to everything around her. Her enjoyment probably was enhanced by the sense of being in company, or she would have betaken herself elsewhere.

Miss Baldwin, however, was far more alive to what was going on than anybody there could have imagined. Unnoticed, she marked every look and every word. For romance was going on, here under her very eyes, and she could fit it all in to her ideas of how a story of romance should run.

There was the sweet young girl brought up in the seclusion of her country home, untouched as yet by the wand of love; there were two men eager to break the spell that held her; and one of them was a lord. Pamela had no idea how much Miss Baldwin, prim and plain and scholastic, admired her. Judith she had taught for a year, and Judith was just a schoolgirl to her, like any other, although she was now grown up, and as beautiful in her way as Pamela. Pamela seemed to her the very type of well-born maidenhood, beautiful and gay, and kind and gentle in her speech and in her ways. She could weave stories around her, and longed for the time when the suitors should come thronging. Upon Norman's first appearance she had cast him for the part of hero, and well he would have filled it but for the fact of his cousinhood. He was young and gay and handsome too, and a soldier. But she soon saw him as taking the place towards the girls of their brother, who had been killed. He might come into the story later, but not as a suitor.

Two suitors had now appeared on the field, almost at the same time. It might have been thought that Miss Baldwin would have favoured the lord, who, upon his first appearance at Hayslope, had actually ridden over on a horse, from his battlemented castle—or rather from his father's, which came to the same thing. But Horsham did not conform to her ideas of a lord, in spite of the horse and the castle. His looks were not on a level with Pamela's, and though he had youth on his side, she could not describe it to herself as gallant youth. He had addressed himself to her when he had first lunched at Hayslope, and with courtesy; but it had been to ask her whether she thought Edinburgh or Liverpool had the more easterly aspect. Suspecting some sort of catch, she had replied coldly in favour of Edinburgh, and it had appeared that she was wrong. That didn't matter; but the question seemed unworthy of one of his rank. She would rather that he had ignored her, as the meek silent drudge, in the family but not of it, and beneath the notice of such as he. He seemed to be well-meaning and well-educated—his conversation had been largely geographical. But Miss Baldwin was not content in a lord with qualities that would have graced a schoolmaster.

Did she then favour the suit of Fred Comfrey, whose desires lay open to her? She did. He was a son of the vicarage, who had gone out into the world at an early age to carve his own way in it; and from what she had heard, he seemed to some extent already to have carved it. He had given up everything to fight in the war, had fought like a hero—as far as she knew—and received honourable wounds, from which he had not yet entirely recovered. His square ugly face and his broad frame spelt POWER. If he was not quite the strong silent man—for he talked a good deal, and rather nervously—he might become so, under trial. He was still young, though he had done so much. He paid attention to her, and rather embarrassed her by so doing; for she did not wish to be talked to in company, having little to say in reply. But his reasons for doing so were obvious, and she approved of them. If she could have brought herself to tell him that she saw everything and wished him well, her tongue might have been unloosed in a way to surprise him. But that, of course, was impossible, though she sometimes played with the idea of the unconsidered governess putting everything right by a bashfully whispered word to the ever-after-grateful hero.

She did more than play with the idea of things going wrong. She expected and longed for it, but only as a preliminary to their eventually going right. Nobody but herself seemed yet to have awakened to what was going on. When they did, who could doubt that it would be the lord who would be preferred by the parents, and the other who would be sent about his business—perhaps with contumely? She rather hoped with contumely, for then he would have an opportunity of showing what stuff he was made of, and it would be so much more interesting. Oh, if only Pamela could have her eyes opened before the discovery came! If he had made no impression on her, she would, of course, accept his dismissal at the hands of her parents with complete equanimity, and the story would simply fizzle out.

That was why Miss Baldwin watched the pair of them so closely, as with their heads almost touching they bent over their common task, and the talk flowed, with never a ripple that she could discern to disturb it, and give it a deeper meaning. There were signs in his speech and looks of what she wanted to see, but she had got used to that by this time. It was like carrying on for too long with a chapter that had already told its tale. She wanted the next one, in which Pamela was to show the signs. Sometimes she thought it might be beginning; but it never did. Pamela had not even seen yet what had become so plain. Her friendliness could not be misunderstood. There was no hint of self-consciousness in it; or if Miss Baldwin sometimes thought that she caught a hint of her awakening, it soon died away again. She was forced to believe that Pamela was as yet fancy-free.

But here, unexpectedly, was a factor introduced into the story of which she had lost sight. Sitting at the window, and looking up just at the right moment, she saw Norman come out into the garden, from the wood which lay between the Hall and the Grange. He was buttoned up at neck and sleeves in a rain-coat, and the brim of his soft felt hat was pulled down over his face. He carried an ash sapling, which he was swishing about as if he were conducting an orchestra. In imagination he may have been, for he was a musical enthusiast. He was walking very fast, and there was something in his appearance that appealed to Miss Baldwin's imagination, which within its limits had the same artistic enthusiasm as his. For a moment he presented himself to her as the third suitor, whose success—after vicissitudes to be undergone—was finally to be hoped for. But the idea was rejected as soon as formulated. There was no story in it, for it was difficult to see where the vicissitudes were to come from. Besides, the cousinship held. She could not see Norman and Pamela as lovers.

There was material for Miss Baldwin in Norman's first meeting with Fred. He came into the room with a breezy, high-spirited air, which changed completely as he caught sight of Fred sitting at the table, intent upon his task, with Pamela's head very near to his, and Isabelle's still nearer. Only she saw this; for he had burst into the room unannounced, and by the time heads were raised his expression had changed again, though not to that of eager pleasure with which he had entered. He shook hands with Fred, if not cordially, with no marked hostility, and said a few words to him before answering the inquiries that were showered upon him by the others.

No, they had not meant to come down to the Grange this week. His father had gone to stay with some old duffer who wanted to talk politics with him. His mother had been going too, but wasn't very fit. He had turned up the night before in London, and persuaded her to let him motor her down. He had come to ask if Aunt Cynthia and Pamela would come to luncheon.

Miss Baldwin's eyes were on the strong silent man-to-be during this passage. He did not quite fulfil her expectations, for he looked almost as if he were ashamed at having been caught. This might mean that he knew he would have to face opposition from Pamela's cousin, which Miss Baldwin would not have expected him to divine at so early a stage. But she would have liked him to hold up his head higher, while for the moment he was apart from the centre of the scene. The silence was there, but not the strength; he looked merely awkward.

She waited until attention was upon him again. Norman's first look of dislike had impressed her, and contained promise of drama. It looked as if these two had crossed each others' path before; but that could hardly be, for she knew by this time that Fred had been carving his way to fortune in foreign climes and had not for years visited the home-land. They had met in boyhood; but any differences of opinion they might have had then would not have amounted to crossing each other's path. She came, somewhat reluctantly, to the conclusion that there was nothing more in it than what she expected; dislike on the part of Pamela's relations to the idea of her being wooed by the vicar's self-made son, when once they woke up to the possibility of such a thing. Norman had apparently woke up to it instantly. Of that she gained assurance, as he talked to Fred about his experiences in the war, and other matters, in a way unlike his usual open sociable manner of speech, which showed plainly, to her at least, that dislike was behind it all. It seemed to her that Pamela was aware of the hostility, and deprecated it. She helped Fred, and pointed for him the modesty of some of his replies. She even seemed to suggest that he should be included in the invitation to luncheon; but Norman did not respond to the suggestion, and when she went off to find her mother he went with her, as if he did not want to be left with Fred; and when he said good-bye to him he made no proposal of their meeting again. His attitude, indeed, was so significant that even the children noticed it. For Alice said: "Norman seems to have something on his mind. I don't think he's liking us as much as usual." And Isabelle added: "Perhaps he's in love. It takes them like that, doesn't it, Miss Baldwin?"

Miss Baldwin made a suitable reply, to the effect that Isabelle should go on with what she was doing, and not ask silly questions. The children, of course, knew of her taste for fiction, but were not enough interested in her to make it the subject of more than an occasional allusion of this sort, with which she could cope by assuming her rÔle of instructress. Fred took his departure soon afterwards. Perhaps he had some hope of coming across Pamela in another part of the house. Perhaps he was too dispirited to go on with what he was doing with Pamela gone. There was a marked drop in his air of contentment during the short time he remained, and he did not respond to the chatter of the children with his usual complacency. Oh, no doubt the affair was in train of development now, and a new chapter might fairly be said to have begun.

It was not until after luncheon that Norman and Pamela were alone together. Rain was still falling, and they went into the billiard-room, but did not immediately begin the game which they usually played on such occasions. Norman had recovered his spirits, never for very long obscured, but his first words, as he shut the door behind him, were: "I say, old girl, it was rather a shock to find that fellow making himself at home with you this morning. I don't think you ought to accept him into the bosom of the family in that way. Really, he's a most awful outsider."

Perhaps Pamela had been giving the subject some consideration, in preparation for some such attack. She affected no surprise at it, but said: "I know you don't like him. I'm not particularly anxious that you should, or I might have been annoyed at the way you treated him this morning. But do leave us alone about him. We're going to be nice to him as long as he stays here. Father and mother want us to, for one thing. Anyhow, it's nothing to do with you. Now tell me about Margaret."

"Oh, I'll tell you all about Margaret when the time comes. It's partly what I came down for. But, Pam dear, do take a word of warning about that fellow. It's easy enough to see that he's trying to worm himself in. It isn't exactly his technique, you know, to play the kind elder to children. Of course it's you he's after. Excuse my speaking plainly, but I do know about these things. It's calculated to make one sick—the idea of a creature like that making up to you."

She replied, with slightly heightened colour, but in the same level kindly tone: "It's awfully sweet of you to be so careful about me, Norman dear; but your vivid imagination is running away with you. There's nothing of that sort going on, and if there were I could deal with it perfectly well myself."

"No, you couldn't," he said firmly. "You think you know a lot, but you know very little. You don't know anything at all about a man of that sort, thank goodness! Of course I know that you're ratty at my talking about it at all, although you pretend not to be. So I won't go on. I've given you my warning, and if you're wise you'll pay attention to it."

"It's very sweet of you, as I said before; and I'm not in the least ratty. And if I don't know something about all that sort of thing by this time, I ought to, for you never talk about anything else. Now talk about it in connection with Margaret."

"Ah! You are ratty. But you can't make me. If my wisdom and self-control weren't equal to my perceptions, supported by a life-time experience, I should reiterate my warnings. As it is, I stop short—like that!"

He gave a snap of his fingers, and stood staring at her, his hand lifted, until she was obliged to laugh. "You're a donkey," she said. "Now tell me about Margaret."

"Ah! Margaret!" he said. "You observe that I speak with a lingering intonation, Pam. It represents the tender emotion which stirs my bosom whenever I utter that sweet name. But unfortunately, I haven't seen her again; I have only been feeding on her memory—her sweet and ducal memory."

"Oh, then that means that you have seen somebody else. I did think that it meant something at last—not a great deal, but still something. Who has cut her out?"

"Pam dear, how crude you are! I should say coarse if it were anyone else. Cut her out! As if anybody could cut her out! No, she remains the one and only. Margaret! Her very name is music. But I told you, didn't I, that her father was a Duke?"

"Oh, yes, you told me that. It is one of the few things I know about her—and that she's a sort of highbrow, though not devoid of good looks."

"A highbrow! Sometimes I think you've no soul, Pam. Margaret is not a highbrow, any more than you are. But she is the daughter of a Duke; and it has occurred to me that in pursuing the daughter of a Duke I may be laying myself open to misconceptions."

"Yes, I see. But I wish you'd come to the point and tell me who the other girl is."

They had been standing by the window. Norman turned away, and said in a different voice: "Let's sit down. I want to tell you something."

They sat on a sofa by the fireplace. Norman lit a pipe. "I say, Pam," he said, "did you ever think of Dad as a sort of millionaire?"

"What a funny question! What is a sort of millionaire? I suppose I've always known that he has plenty of money. What is the bearing of the question?"

"You know I've been having a week's sail on the Broads, with a couple of pals. We've had a topping time. I'll tell you about it later on. One of the fellows was Dick Baskerville, a son of Lord Ledbury, who's Minister for something or other—I've forgotten what—and the other was Eric Blundell, one of those blokes who seems to know everybody and everything that's going on. They were both at Eton with me, and both in the regiment. Dick's in it still, and Eric's at Cambridge. We'd always chaffed each other about our respective anginas, and...."

"What do you mean—anginas?"

"Heart troubles. Both of them had tumbled to Margaret, and brought her up against me. I didn't deny the soft impeachers; in fact I was rather pleased at it. When your time comes, you'll see how that works out. But by and by they began to talk about it as if it were something quite serious."

"Sweet youths!" interpolated Pam.

"Oh, there was nothing wrong with them. I mean that they began to talk about marriage, and the right sort of match, and all that sort of thing."

"I should have thought you'd have been rather pleased with that."

"Why? Because she's the daughter of a Duke? I shouldn't have thought you would have taken that line."

He looked pained. "I don't, really," said Pam soothingly. "Did they?"

"Oh, not in any way that you could object to. I mean they wouldn't have thought I was making up to her because of that. But—well, the long and the short of it is that I seemed to present myself to their minds as the son of a man who's so rich that I can afford to make up to anybody. That's what's disturbing me."

She bent her mind to it. "Really, I don't quite see," she said, with sympathy. "If it does come to that—that you want to marry her—wouldn't it make it easier?"

"I suppose I should be glad that money didn't stand in the way. But I don't quite like it, all the same. Dad seems to be quite well known, as a man who has made pots of money, and may be made a peer himself, or anything he likes—not because of his money—I don't mean that exactly—but because he has made himself so useful to them. What I didn't like was the sort of suggestion that he made a pot during the war. I know he didn't, and I told them so. Of course they said that they had never imagined anything of that kind—seemed shocked at the very idea. But I'm pretty certain that the idea is going about, and I don't like it a bit. Anyhow, I'm not going to exhibit myself as a joyous young bounder who thinks he can do anything he likes because he's the son of a rich man. I don't believe Dad is as rich as all that, and I told them so. I said I supposed they were leading up to asking me to back bills for them. We left it on that note. But it's rather disturbing, isn't it?"

"Not very, Norman dear. I shouldn't let it worry you. I know perfectly well that you'd be just the same if Uncle Bill were as poor as a church mouse; and everybody would be just as pleased to see you."

"Dear old girl! You know that I shouldn't found myself on money; but everybody doesn't. I shall have to be a bit careful, if it's really like that. I think I shall put it to Dad myself. He's not like that, either. He likes work, and he's made a big success of it because he's so clever, and sound. It's hard luck if people have got hold of a wrong idea of him."

"You're always telling me that I know nothing; but I do know as much as that—that rich people are apt to be misunderstood. Still, we know him, so what does it matter? What is the bearing of it all upon Margaret?"

"The bearing of it on Margaret—name that melts my very heart-strings—is that I shall go slow for a time, and see how things turn out. If she weren't a Duke's daughter, I should let myself rip. As it is, I'm not so sure."