Dusk was beginning to fall as Colonel Eldridge took a last stroll round the garden he loved, smoking the pipe to which he had taken when he had decided that cigars were too expensive for him any longer. The rest of the family were at the Grange, except the two children, who were supposed to be in bed. Whether they actually were so or not their father allowed himself to doubt, with a smile at the corners of his mouth. They had been keeping him company until summoned by Miss Baldwin, and his thoughts were still upon them. He had a great love for young children, but some stiff reserved trait in his character prevented him from showing it, even to his own, when there was anyone else by. What he liked was to have them to himself, and listen to their prattle, which was all music in his ears, though he affected to exercise some control over it. He would rather stay at home with the children, he had said, than dine at the Grange; but Mrs. Eldridge had understood that he would not go there until the dispute between him and his brother was settled. Sir William was coming down late that evening, dining on the train.

The children actually were in bed; for Miss Baldwin, always eager to get to her evening's reading, was strict in this matter. She was sitting by the window that faced on to the drive. She liked best the other windows, with their view across the lawn, but thought that Colonel Eldridge might look up and see her there, and feel that he was being watched. She did take an occasional surreptitious look at him. He was interesting her at this time, for she thought that he must soon come into the story which she was weaving around Pamela, and though she knew how he ought to act in order to advance the interest of the story, she was not sure that he would fulfil her expectations. It was more interesting so. One did not always want to look at pages ahead in an exciting story.

Miss Baldwin was not so immersed in the printed story she was reading as to be quite oblivious to the beauty of the scene before her, in the fading light of the summer evening. She sometimes raised her eyes to it, with a grateful sense of its increasing her enjoyment in the pleasant hour that was all her own. The sky was an expanse of faint pulsing blue, passing to a delicate rose above the horizon; the distant country was losing its sharper details in the pale haze that enveloped it, but the heavy mass of Pershore Castle could still be seen in the middle distance, and kept alive in her mind that other story which she was making for herself.

It was this state of awareness, no doubt, that suggested to her that the motor-car which she descried on the drive, upon one of her upward looks, was bringing one of Pamela's suitors to interview Pamela's father. Horsham had driven himself over a few evenings before, after dinner, with the offer of a joy-ride. She rose hastily and looked out of the other window. Colonel Eldridge was still there, looking at his roses now, in the garden nearest the drive. He would be seen by whoever was in the car, and it was probable that the ensuing conversation would take place under her eyes.

The car could be seen more plainly when she went back, and it was a disappointment to recognize it as Sir William Eldridge's big touring Rolls-Royce, instead of the more modest and slightly out-of-date RÉnault from Pershore Castle. It had purred up to the iron gate which divided the gravelled square in front of the house from the park by the time she had adjusted her mind to the disappointment, and while the chauffeur was opening the gate she looked out again at Colonel Eldridge, who by this time had heard it, and was moving towards where he could see who was coming. She saw Sir William hitch himself out of the driving-seat, and go across to his brother, with the light active step which she always admired in him, and heard his hearty greeting. "Well, Edmund, old fellow, I thought I'd come and have a word or two with you on my way home, though I wasn't sure that you wouldn't be dining at the Grange. Eleanor wrote that Cynthia and the girls were."

It seemed to Miss Baldwin that Colonel Eldridge's reply to the greeting was lacking in the warmth which it invited. But his manner was never so free and open as Sir William's, who had the pleasantest way with him, even when he addressed himself to a retiring but appreciative governess. The words he used had no importance to impress themselves upon her, but Sir William's next speech, delivered in his clear voice, which carried them up to her, were: "I'm glad I've found you alone, then. Look here, old boy, let's get this tiresome business that we've been writing about out of the way." Here they moved off together on to the lawn. "The last thing in the world I want is to get up against you, and if I've done or written anything that has offended you, I'm sorry for it."

There was a pause before Colonel Eldridge replied. His voice was in a lower key, and by this time they were out of hearing. Miss Baldwin, who had much delicacy of feeling, shut the two windows which looked on to the lawn, softly, while their backs were turned to her; but she did not forbid herself to conjecture what it was that had happened between them or to taste her own surprise that anything should have happened to bring forth that introductory speech. She did not connect it with the affair in which she was so interested, for she had not given Sir William a part in that story. Probably it was nothing of any consequence, and when they had talked it over, walking up and down the lawn, Colonel Eldridge with his pipe, Sir William with his cigar, they would go into the house, and Sir William would take a little refreshment before driving himself home to the Grange. The great car stood there below, its latent power ready to be put in motion at a moment's notice, and the chauffeur stood by it, as if he, at least, was not expecting to be kept there long.

The two men walked up and down together for half an hour, until it became too dark to see their faces. Sometimes they stopped in their walk and stood still for a time, and then they would go on again. Sometimes Sir William made a gesture, but Colonel Eldridge hardly moved his hands, except to take his pipe out of his mouth, and once to fill and light it again. It was impossible for Miss Baldwin, who now watched them, fascinated by a sense of drama, and with no pretence to herself of not doing so, to avoid the conviction that their dispute was serious, and not easy of settlement. She thought she could tell from Sir William's movements that he was coming to feel more and more annoyance, and that Colonel Eldridge was also angry, though he was exercising control over himself.

But surely, it must end some time! It was so dark now that she could only just see their forms in the shade of the trees, and Sir William's cigar glowed with a red point of light; and still they went on. She began to get alarmed lest Colonel Eldridge might look up at the windows of the schoolroom and notice that they were unlit, and it would be discovered that she had been watching them, sitting in the dark. But she dared not draw the curtains now, for that would be to attract attention.

The end came suddenly, and in a way to make her draw her breath. They had been stationary for some time, and their voices had raised themselves slightly. She could hear them through the other window, which remained open, but not what they were saying. Sir William walked quickly across the lawn, and through the gate to where his car was standing. He got into his seat, and the twin lights in front of the car blazed out blindingly. The chauffeur ran to open the gate into the park, and it seemed to her that he hardly had time to jump on to the car as it went through it, swinging to behind them. She watched the radiance that moved with it, and the little point of red light behind it, until it disappeared over a dip, and then went again to the other window. Colonel Eldridge was lighting his pipe once more. When he had done so, he resumed his slow pacing of the lawn.

They were playing Bridge at the Grange, Lady Eldridge and Pamela against Mrs. Eldridge and Norman. Judith, who did not care for Bridge, was deep in a big chair, reading a book. Her passion for facts, lately fostered by her friendship with Lord Horsham, had not driven her to choose this book, which was "Three Men in a Boat." She read it closely, turning over the pages at regular intervals, and never smiled once. But when she came to reproducing scraps of its wisdom after she had digested it and made it her own, she would make others laugh over it.

Her mother's eyes were often upon her in the intervals of the game, with a sort of critical look, as if she were trying to see her in some new light. She made a picture to fill the eye, in her white frock, with the deep purple ribbons at her waist and in her dusky hair. The dark covering of the chair framed her young form, and threw up the delicate profile of her face, the long lashes veiling her eyes, the full red lips a little apart. She was a very beautiful girl, but childhood seemed to linger about her, emphasized by the way her hair was done, and the slim crossed ankles beneath her skirt, shorter than she would presently come to wear it. Was her mother trying to see her as already a woman? It would not be surprising if others did, though it was doubtful if she herself was yet ready to step out of the enchanted garden of her girlhood.

A rubber was just finished, and Pamela and Norman were endeavouring to come to some agreement about the score, when sounds were heard outside which caused Lady Eldridge to rise from her chair. "That must be William," she said. "He's very late. I'll just go and see if he wants anything."

She went out, and did not return. Pamela and Norman finished their calculations and leant back in their chairs. Mrs. Eldridge had already moved to a more comfortable one, and was sitting there in silence, looking out into the night, through the open French windows.

Presently it became noticeable that they were left alone. Even Judith looked up from her book inquiringly, but turned again to Montmorency, relieved, perhaps, at having a few more minutes' respite. Norman said: "I wonder what they're doing?" Then he and Pamela began to play Patience, and so they all continued, but with expectancy.

Ten minutes must have gone by before Lady Eldridge came in again. Her sister-in-law threw a sharp glance at her, but she showed no traces of anything having happened to disturb her, unless it was in an added seriousness of expression. "William sends his love, and hopes you will excuse his coming in," she said. "He has some letters to write before he goes to bed."

Mrs. Eldridge got up. "It is time we were going," she said, and Lady Eldridge did not ask her to stay longer, though it was not later than half-past ten, and their parties did not usually break up so early. Norman looked quickly from one to the other, and said: "All right; I'll go and get the car. I shall be ready by the time you've got your bonnet and spencer on, Aunt Cynthia."

Their light cloaks were in the hall. Pamela went out to get hers, and Judith followed her, Mrs. Eldridge lingering behind. "William went to see Edmund on his way home," Lady Eldridge said to her; "and they have quarrelled. Oh, Cynthia, do put it right! I'll do all I can. We mustn't stay here now, or the girls will suspect something."

She had spoken with great earnestness, though hurriedly, and immediately went into the hall, where she talked to Pamela and Judith until Norman came round with the car. Mrs. Eldridge said nothing; but when she kissed her sister-in-law good-night, she gave her a pressure of the hand, which was returned as warmly.

Pamela sat in front with Norman. The car he was driving was half closed, and the screen behind them allowed them to talk without being overheard by Mrs. Eldridge and Judith. "Father has been with Uncle Edmund," he said, "for nearly an hour. I'm afraid they've had a row."

Pamela had not imagined anything of the sort, and was disagreeably affected. "Oh, they can't have," she said. "Why do you think so?"

"Well, it was odd, his not coming in. And why shouldn't mother have said that he had been at the Hall? And why should she have stayed out with him so long?"

Depression seized upon Pamela. She was young enough to feel rather shocked at the idea of her elders quarrelling, which had never happened at home within her knowledge. The Hall and the Grange had been in such close contact for years past that her uncle and aunt shared something of the feeling that she had for her parents, who had not yet come to be criticized by their children. It was unpleasant to think of them as moved by temper, or more than on the surface by irritation, at least against one another. A rift would affect them all. A disagreeable impression had already been made by Uncle Bill not coming in to see them, for he had always given them such a welcome, and hurried to greet them as if they were a part of his own family, whom he was glad to see again after an absence.

"I suppose it's about that beastly garden," said Norman. "But mother told me he had written to her about it, and said that he wasn't going on with it now. If he went to see Uncle Edmund on his way home, it can only have been to tell him so."

The implied criticism of her father moved Pamela. "It's no use our imagining what it is," she said. "Let's wait until we know."

"Yes; we can't do anything. I suppose mother and Aunt Cynthia can, though. They don't want to quarrel."

"Dad and Uncle William won't either. I should think Uncle Bill is more easily upset than Dad. If he is annoyed with him now, he will have got over it by to-morrow."

There was a slight pause. "It's rather beastly, you know," Norman said. "Already, in the few words we've had about it, I've been looking at it from father's point of view and you from Uncle Edmund's. I suppose it's natural; but what I think is that it can't be anything serious, and there's no reason for us to take sides. I won't, anyhow. I dare say you're right, and father is more quick-tempered than Uncle Edmund. They're both jolly good sorts, and I don't think you'll often find two brothers of their age who get on so well together as they do. I suppose I'm rather like father myself. I've often said things you haven't liked, but I've been sorry for them afterwards."

This touched her. It was one of the things that she loved about Norman—his quick reactions at the call of affection. She had sometimes been guilty of arousing his annoyance, so that she might see him come round to her again. "I'm sure we needn't worry ourselves," she said, with more agreement in her tone than she had used before. "Uncle Bill not coming in to see us was so unusual that we are making more of it than it can possibly mean. Supposing they were both angry with one another just now, it can't possibly last. Even if they didn't calm down at once themselves, mother and Auntie Eleanor wouldn't let them go on with it."

Norman laughed at that. "And if they couldn't stop them, we should," he said. "We're all like one family. Nothing could separate us for long."

When they came to the iron gate where the park ended, it was to find it open. "Oh, there's Dad!" said Pamela, and called out a greeting to him as they passed through. "I'm so glad, Norman. He isn't keeping out of your way. He must have got over it already."

She ran back to her father when the car stopped before the door, and put her arm through his. "Have you been lonely without us, darling?" she said. "I'll stay with you till Norman goes through again. I know he isn't coming in."

It was in his usual rather expressionless voice that he asked her: "Had a good evening? The children and I practised archery, with some old bows and arrows they found upstairs. I think we must set that up properly."

It was a great relief to her to find him like this. When Norman came back slowly through the gate, he thanked him for bringing them home, and bid him good-night in his usual way. She could see that Norman was relieved too. There had been if not an actual quarrel something very like it, but this was the way in which such unfortunate occurrences between elders should be treated, with nothing of it allowed to be seen by those who looked up to them. She could not help comparing his attitude with that of Uncle William, who had taken it in such different fashion. Her father's dignity and self-control seemed to her to exhibit itself plainly beside his unwillingness to show himself under his annoyance. It was not difficult to judge which of the two was more likely to have been in the right.

They shut the gate and went back to the house. Colonel Eldridge kissed her good-night. "I'll go and have a word with mother," he said.

Yes, something had happened, and her father and mother would talk it over together. And very soon it would all be put right. Uncle William and Auntie Eleanor were also probably talking it over, and she would certainly bring him to the right frame of mind. He was such a good sport, though without the essential wisdom that showed up so plainly in her father. He must have been in the wrong; but he was so generous and so affectionate that it would not take him long to see it and to say so.

As for Norman, his uncle's greeting had removed his discomfort entirely. The best of friends were apt to fall out occasionally, and if that had happened between his father and his uncle, it was nothing to worry about. He dismissed them from his mind as he sped down the drive, until he had to slow up for that part of the road which was under repair, when it occurred to him that this was probably what the row was about. The workmen who had been engaged for work at the Grange had been snooped for work at the Hall. Really, that was rather thick! There was no doubt that Uncle Edmund had an arbitrary way with him; but he was a thoroughly good old sort, all the same. Norman had many kindnesses to remember from him, from his early boyhood, when country pursuits had not come to him so readily as they did now, and during his visits to the Hall it had always been thoughtfully arranged that he should have all possible opportunities for enjoying himself.

He did not accelerate to his former pace when he had passed over the loose stones but leant back in his seat and crawled along, so as to give himself up to the romance of the summer night, and all the moving thoughts that his surrender to it would bring him. The young moon had not long since risen, and bathed the undulating spaces of the park in a soft, silvery sheen. The night coolness after the heat of the day brought sweet, sharp scents to his nostrils. The still beauty of the night seemed to be inviting him to something more than a solitary appreciation of it. He wished he had suggested that they should go for a longer drive. He and Pam both loved the beauty of the earth, and would have expressed their love for this sweet aspect of it to one another, heightening their own appreciations, as they did with every new discovery they made about truth and beauty. Pam was a girl in a thousand. His thoughts dwelt upon her, though he had thought of inviting them to the contemplation of another figure. As an only child he was lucky to have these girl cousins at the Hall, in place of sisters, and especially Pam, whom he had loved since she was a tiny child, Pam, who had grown up to take so many of her ideas and opinions from him, as a girl should, with one much older, who had seen more of the world than she had. Pam was grown up now; sometimes she expressed ideas of her own, and was inclined to assert them, as she had not been wont to do. That made her more interesting, for he would not have had her a mere echo of himself; and he knew that, for all her little charming airs of independence, she still looked up to him and admired him, which was right too, for although there were many better fellows than himself, he had taught her to accept the right pattern. Pam would be throwing herself away if she chose from another one. He was glad that the danger from Horsham's incipient suit seemed to be over. It was odd that he should be coming to prefer Judith, who, in spite of her beauty, had none of the bright charm and cleverness of dear Pam; but Horsham certainly wasn't good enough for her, though he would do very well for Judith. As for that outsider, Fred Comfrey...!

Norman accelerated here, and did not slow down again until he had reached the elaborate iron gates which gave access to the Grange. He had had the idea of a long moonlight drive by himself, with his thoughts to keep him company, but changed his mind now, and went in.

As he entered the brightly lit hall, the remembrance of the occurrences of half an hour before returned to him. He hadn't seen his father yet, who would probably be in his room, for he never went to bed early. He would go in and find out all about it.