What was Norman doing? He did not come to the Hall on that day, nor on the next, and it was not until the third day that Pamela heard he had gone away the afternoon before. The close intercourse between the Hall and the Grange was lessening. Lady Eldridge had been left alone at the Grange, and she had not proposed herself to dine at the Hall, or asked any of them to keep her company. Pamela felt unhappy about it all. They seemed to be drifting apart, and nobody was doing anything to prevent it. If Fred was right about Norman, he was even acting in such a way as to make the breach wider. She had decided to say something to him about the inquiries he had been making, but he had kept away from her. That was very unlike him, and it was not in the bargain he had made with her. They two were to ignore the quarrel altogether, and be just as they had been before. He was not ignoring the quarrel, but apparently taking a hand in it, and he had gone away without a word to her, which she could not remember his ever having done. Perhaps he was annoyed with her for having admitted Fred into so much intimacy. Well, she had her own reasons for that, and to stand aloof from her himself wasn't the way to recommend his opinion to her. It was rather a relief to her that Fred had also gone away for a couple of days, for she had not decided yet what she should do with the information he had brought her, and she had no inclination to discuss her course of action with him.

She went over to the Grange in the morning to see her aunt. She still had faith in her, and knew from her mother how troubled she was about the estrangement. But she had not talked with her about it herself. She thought she might, this morning, if she were given a chance.

But Lady Eldridge did not give her a chance. She was in her pretty room, busy with a water-colour drawing of flowers. She was pleased to see Pam, and kept her to lunch with her. They played the piano together and sang, and cut flowers from the garden and arranged them. It was just such a quiet happy morning as Pam had often spent with her, except that it was not very happy. There was the shadow over both of them. Pamela could see that her aunt was sad about it, but also that she did not want it mentioned. The terms they were on did not permit of her breaking through the implied prohibition unless she had had a firmly fixed purpose in doing so. But no purpose was yet fixed in her.

She learnt that Norman was coming back the next day, bringing two Cambridge friends with him, who were going to stay for a fortnight and read hard; also that her uncle was not coming down for the week-end. It was the third he had missed in a few weeks, and it was the time of year when he generally stayed at Hayslope altogether. It looked as if he were keeping away on purpose, and she thought that her aunt had mentioned his not being expected as an intimation that nobody need stay away from the Grange because of him. It was a sad pass for them to have come to, and Pamela was not encouraged, as she walked home, by the thought that her aunt seemed to accept it, though not without distress.

The next day Colonel and Mrs. Eldridge, Pamela and Judith went over to lunch at Pershore Castle. There was a niece staying in the house, for whom the society of other young girls was desired. Pamela found her uninteresting. She was just a niece—of the sort who is to be found in most country houses, and unless deflected by matrimony develops in course of time into a cousin, of the sort who is to be found in most country houses. Some bright life was wanted for the benefit of the niece, who was bright herself in a niece-like way, and indeed seemed to possess all the attributes and attainments of a country-house niecehood.

They lunched in a vaulted stone hall, decorated with armour and ancient weapons, but Lord and Lady Crowborough, though both descended from ancestors who might have worn the armour and wielded the weapons, made it appear rather commonplace. Lord Crowborough was genial, and rather heavily playful with the girls, and especially with the niece, who responded to him in the way required, and Lady Crowborough, who had begun by being stately, soon thawed into almost profuse friendship towards Colonel Eldridge on her right and Judith on her left. Horsham sat next to Judith, who was inclined to be silent. Pam was on the other side of the table, next to the niece, and his eyes were frequently attracted to her. He might possibly have told the niece how it was with him, for she made efforts to include them both in conversation. But it is more likely that, guided by some subtle instinct, she was, unknown to herself, preparing for the years of cousinship ahead, when Horsham would sit where his father sat now, and his wife, whoever she might be, would invite her to pay long visits to them.

She took Judith off somewhere after lunch, and left Pamela with Horsham. This was not to Pamela's liking, but she soon discovered that it was to his. She did not pay much attention to his conversation, feeling a trifle drowsy after the half glass of Moselle which Lord Crowborough had insisted upon her drinking, until she woke up to the fact that he was endeavouring in a tentative and rather clumsy way to make love to her. She was inclined to be flattered, because she had now made up her mind that he liked Judith better than he liked her, though he might not be fully aware of it yet himself. But she did not want to be made love to for the moment, however tentatively. It was too hot, for one thing, and even half a glass of Moselle induces a disinclination to mental effort when your preference in fluids is for plain water.

She staved off the pressure for a time by asking him exactly how far he thought it was from Hayslope to Pershore, and expressing doubt at his answer. If she had thought of it she would have asked him to fetch a map, and he would have done so willingly and proved that he was right. But he ended that discussion by saying: "Whatever the distance is, I wish it was less. Then I should see you oftener."

This was no longer tentative, though it might be lacking in finesse. It was too much trouble to fence with it, only to have it pressed home. "Oh, my dear old Jim," she said, "I don't want you to say that sort of thing. Let's talk sensibly, if we must talk. But to tell you the truth, I feel rather sleepy. Couldn't we both drop off for a few minutes? These chairs are very comfortable."

Horsham was sitting up in his. They were on a terrace edged with a battlemented wall, from which there was a fine spreading view of the country that this ancient castle had once dominated. Men at arms had paced up and down the flags upon which the wicker chairs and tables were now so invitingly displayed, and if a fair lady had ever been wooed there by the inheritor of all the power and wealth that had been represented by Pershore Castle, it would have been in very different terms from those now being used by his descendant.

Nevertheless, Lord Horsham possessed, in addition to his quite modern tastes, habits and appearance, some sense, not to be confounded with vanity, of the dignities he had inherited, or would inherit, and a certain direct simplicity of purpose such as had probably had a good deal to do with advancing his ancestors to the summit of their desires. He passed over completely Pamela's very modern expression of humour, and said: "I hadn't thought of saying anything to you now because it's just a chance that we are here alone, and I don't know how much time there'll be. But there's no sense in keeping back what's there, and I know my own mind by this time. It's quite simple. You're the only girl I've ever seen that I should like to marry—I don't mean yet; but is there any chance of it?"

This had been said, not altogether without intimations of nervousness, but with a weight that forbade the response of raillery. Pamela corrected herself, and replied: "I'm afraid not, Jim. I like you very much indeed. I always have and I always shall; but I don't want to marry you."

"I suppose you mean that you don't love me."

"Well—I suppose I do; at least not in that way."

"I didn't think you did, you know," he said, not showing nervousness now. "But don't you think it would come? I don't know much about how these things work, because I've never gone about trying to fall in love, as some fellows seem to do. But I did read in a book somewhere that women often fell in love with men after they were married, though men didn't."

Pamela allowed herself some relaxation in her attitude of seriousness and laughed. "I don't think it does to go by books in that sort of thing," she said. "Aren't you making a mistake in your feelings about me, Jim? I know you like me, and I'm very glad you do. I like you too. But we don't seem to be exactly cut out for one another. Really, you get on much better with Judith than you do with me. There's much more in common between you."

"Oh, I know what you think about me and Judith," he said, surprisingly. "I do get on very well with Judith, but it isn't the same thing at all. You've often sent me off with Judith when I've wanted to be with you, and I've gone because I didn't want to worry you, before I'd said what I've said just now, which I've been meaning to say for some time. It's you I love, not Judith."

This touched her a little. "I'm awfully grateful to you, Jim," she said. "But I can't say what you want. And I'm still not sure that you really do want it. Perhaps I ought not to say it—but we are such good friends, aren't we? And as we've mentioned Judith—I'm sure she has no idea of such a thing, and of course she and I have never talked about you in that way—I really do believe that you like her much better than you think you do. She's a darling, and ever so much prettier than I am, and much more suited to you too. If you could once get me out of your head!"

He listened gravely, and seemed to be weighing what she said. "I've never thought about Judith in that way at all," he said. "She's too young for one thing."

"Oh, yes," she said hurriedly, blushing a little. "Perhaps it's rather horrid of me to talk of her like that. And of course I don't mean now. You're quite young too—not old enough to want to be married yet."

"I shouldn't aim at getting married yet," he confessed, "in the ordinary way, perhaps not for a few years. But there's no reason against it. When I've left Oxford, which will be in another year, I shall be settling down to work, and it has lately seemed to me that I could work much better if I was married—to somebody I love, as I love you, who would help me in everything I did."

"Dear old Jim," she said affectionately. "Somehow, I think you've got hold of the right idea of marriage. With the right girl you would be happy, and I think you would make her happy too. But I'm sure I'm not the right girl for you. We'll go on being friends, though, all the same."

He heaved a sigh. "Well, I can see it's no good going on about it," he said. "All the same, I shan't give up the idea. I suppose there's nobody else you do want to marry, is there?"

"No," she said shortly.

"Well, then, I shall ask you again—when I've left Oxford, and am ready to start. Until then, I shan't bother you—not at all, and I shall be glad to go on being friends, as you say you will be. You won't tell anyone what I've asked you, will you?"

She hesitated. "I'd rather you didn't tell Norman," he said. "I like Norman, and I don't mind his chaff a bit. But I'd rather not be chaffed about this, because I feel seriously about it."

"No, Jim, I won't," she said. "I won't tell anybody until you say that I may."

Lady Crowborough and Mrs. Eldridge had retired together after luncheon, into an upstairs drawing-room, which had a still finer view of the surrounding dappled country than the terrace below.

Mrs. Eldridge was in a mood slightly mischievous. She had seen Lady Crowborough thaw towards her husband, whom she had probably designed to keep at arm's length. She had not yet thawed towards herself, and this retirement to a room not often used, instead of to one with a more intimate significance, seemed to mean that she would be treated with all courtesy and consideration due to her, but not admitted to any heart-felt intercourse.

She talked politely, on the surface of things, and Lady Crowborough responded in the same tone, and as if this was exactly what she wished. She even appeared to be taking the stand of a great, but still affable, lady towards a country neighbour of less exalted position, which Mrs. Eldridge encouraged by due submission. But presently she seemed to be getting uneasy at the absence of the intimacy that had existed for years between her and this particular neighbour, and to be inviting a change in the tone of the conversation. Mrs. Eldridge did not respond to the invitation, but became rather more colourlessly polite than before.

"I always think that you have such lovely views from here," she said, looking out of the window. "We have beautiful views from some of our windows at Hayslope—not all—and the Castle shows up so well from there. But of course you can't live in it and have it to look at too."

"No," Lady Crowborough agreed, and added with a smile, as of one who was saying something rather clever: "Sometimes I wish we had it to look at instead of to live in. There seems no end to the expenses of living in a house as large as this, even when you live as simply as we do. Everything has gone up since the war. Everything. Don't you find it so?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Eldridge. "In our small way we do."

"Even clothes," said Lady Crowborough. "I'm really glad not to be in London so much as we used to be. In the country one can wear old clothes, and it doesn't matter."

"It wouldn't matter, of course, what you wore," said Mrs. Eldridge, and wished Pamela had been there to hear the way she said it. "In our position we have to be more careful. I find it difficult to dress myself and the girls nicely without spending too much on it."

"Oh, but you always look so beautifully dressed," said Lady Crowborough. "And as for girls, I was only thinking at lunch how perfectly charming they looked. They really are the sweetest looking girls, both of them; and so clever and taking too. Of course I always admired them as little girls; but pretty little girls don't always grow up so pretty. Both Pamela and Judith have. I'm not sure that Judith won't be even prettier than Pamela by and by."

"Yes, I think they are pretty, both of them," said Mrs. Eldridge judicially. "And they are looking their best to-day. Excitement always improves young girls, and they have been so looking forward to coming here, ever since we had your kind note."

Her artistic sense reproached her for having gone perhaps a trifle too far, but Lady Crowborough by now was extremely anxious to cast away the tiresome impediments of reserve. "Oh, you must bring them over more often," she said, "especially now we have my niece staying with us. I was saying to my husband only yesterday, we don't see half enough of the Eldridges, and we've always been such close friends. There was a little trouble, I know, between my husband and yours, but that's all over now, and it never affected us, did it? Couldn't we arrange a little picnic together somewhere—just ourselves and your children? I should like Patricia to know Alice and Isabelle. They're not so pretty as Pamela and Judith, but they are pretty, and they're such clever and amusing children. I often wish I had a daughter of my own. I think you're lucky in having four of them."

Mrs. Eldridge allowed herself to relax. "Four daughters are rather a responsibility in these days," she said. "We couldn't do without one of ours, even Alice and Isabelle, who are perfectly hideous, but darlings all the same. Still, it's far less anxiety to have an only son, as you have; especially when he's so well-behaved, as Horsham."

Lady Crowborough felt the change of atmosphere, and all her responsive petals unfolded to it. "I don't mind saying to such an old friend as you," she said confidentially, "that we were a little afraid of Horsham's becoming rather wild at one time. But that's all over. He is taking life quite seriously now, though I'm glad to say that it doesn't prevent his being bright and gay in a way that a young man ought to be."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Eldridge, and again wished that Pamela were there to hear her—or if not Pamela, somebody who could appreciate her.

"I should like Horsham to marry early and settle down," said Lady Crowborough. "I don't approve of very early marriages as a rule, but in his case I think it would turn out well."

"I'm sure he would make a good husband," said Mrs. Eldridge. "His wife would never have a moment's anxiety about him."

"No, I don't think she would. And do you know, dear Mrs. Eldridge, I've a fancy in my head that he is thinking about it already."

"Really? That's very interesting. Is it your niece? She seems a very nice girl."

"Oh, no. Patricia and he get on very well together, but there's never likely to be anything of that sort between them. Patricia is going in for music; she has a very pretty little voice—you must hear her sing—and though she needn't do anything, you never know with a girl, in these days. No, it isn't Patricia, dear. I wonder you haven't seen something yourself; you must look much nearer home."

"One of my girls?" she laughed, naturally. "Which one?" she asked.

"Why, Pamela, of course. Judith is hardly grown up yet."

"And Alice and Isabelle are too ugly, besides being still less grown up. Well, he does like coming over to us, and we're always very pleased to see him. But really, I don't think it has got as far as that yet. If it had I shouldn't have asked which of the girls you suspected. He seems to like them both equally—all four equally, I might almost say. If it were Pamela, should you think she was quite good enough for him?"

The artistic conscience approved of this question, as carrying over the earlier tone of the conversation into the later. But Lady Crowborough had quite done with that earlier tone. "Oh, my dear!" she said in expostulation. "We're not worldly. You ought to know us better than that by this time. Besides, Pamela might marry anybody. You're not worldly either, I'm sure; but you would expect her to make what is called a good match, I should think. Besides—your daughter!"

Mrs. Eldridge forgave her everything. "It would be rather nice," she said. "I shall hate to lose Pam. It seems such a little time ago that she was a tiny child. I suppose she's a little more to me than the others, because she was the first girl. Still, I've got to lose her some time or other, and I should love it if she didn't go very far away. At the same time, you know, I don't think it's going to happen."

Lady Crowborough looked disappointed. She had always shown herself very much taken with Pamela, since her babyhood, and Mrs. Eldridge had known, all the time she was amusing herself with her attempted stand-offishness towards herself, that she had only to mention Pamela's name to turn it into entire friendliness. "I should like it," she said. "And I suppose neither you nor Colonel Eldridge would object, would you?"

"No, of course we shouldn't. One has to think of the sort of marriage one's daughters are likely to make, and we couldn't expect a more satisfactory one, for any of our girls."

"Well, there is the position, of course," said Lady Crowborough, with a slight return to her great lady manner. "But nobody would fill it better than Pamela—as a young wife, I mean."

A glint appeared in Mrs. Eldridge's eyes. "You would be able to teach her what she didn't know," she said.

"Oh, yes. There's nothing so very difficult about it, if you're of the right sort of birth to begin with. Well, there's no hurry. They're both quite young still. But I should like it to happen, I must say; and I'm quite glad we've had a little talk about it. There'd be no harm in trying to help it on, would there? If you and I are agreed, we might do something, of course without showing our hands, you know."

"Yes; you said something about a picnic just now."

All Lady Crowborough's petals expanded to their utmost. "Ah!" she exclaimed ecstatically. "A picnic. Now do let us arrange a picnic!"