Lord Crowborough and Colonel Eldridge had retired for their after-luncheon cigars to another lower terrace overlooking the garden slopes. Lord Crowborough felt it necessary to say something about Sir William's elevation to the Order which he himself adorned, but was not quite sure how his friend would take it. Vague rumours of a dispute had reached Pershore Castle, though nothing was known there as to the grounds of it. Perhaps Edmund Eldridge objected to his brother being elevated above himself. His prejudices were not always reasonable.

"I'm sure William will be very useful to us," said Lord Crowborough, expansively. "He's made an extraordinary success of everything he has done so far. A very capable fellow, William! We've plenty of room for men like him. A man of family too! So many of the people they send to us don't know who their grandfathers were."

"Or else they do know, and keep it dark."

Lord Crowborough laughed appreciatively. "That's very good," he said. "Very good indeed! I must remember that. Or else they do know, and keep it dark. Yes, you've just about hit it. There was a fellow I met a short time ago—I forget his name, which I'd never heard of, or what he called himself—impossible to keep all these new titles in your head—but he told me himself that his grandfather had served behind the counter of a grocer's shop. Well, he didn't keep it dark, to do him justice, and I think they'd only made him a baronet, now I come to think of it, and not a peer. But 'pon my word with half of 'em it's just paying down money, and up they go. Hardly any pretence of having done anything to deserve it. Of course William has made himself useful. Nothing to complain of there."

"They wanted him either in the Lords or the Commons, as I understand. There's no question of his buying a title."

"Eh? Oh, no! Besides, such things aren't done. Nobody really buys a title. There's always some reason for it. With him there's a good one."

"Yes, but— People aren't saying that he has paid money for it, are they?"

"Eh? Oh, I dare say he made a handsome subscription to Party funds, you know. He can afford it. He's a rich fellow, William. That wouldn't be buying his title."

"It wouldn't be far off. Is it the general opinion that he has done that?"

"General opinion? My dear fellow, what does general opinion matter? If he's told you definitely that he hasn't—!"

"Oh, he hasn't told me anything about it. I haven't seen him for a month."

"Eh? I'm sorry to hear that, Edmund. I did hear something about you having fallen out. I hope it's nothing serious. You've always been such good friends, you and William. You're not annoyed about his peerage, are you?"

"No. Why should I be annoyed about it? I should be if I thought he'd bought it—directly or indirectly—as you seem to hint. But I don't think he would do that."

"Eh? No, I dare say not. I don't know anything about it. What are you going to do about shooting this year? You haven't preserved at all since the war, have you?"

"No. William wanted to. We've run the shooting together for some years, you know. He was ready to pay to get it all going again, but I didn't care about that, and I can't afford to pay my share now. There'll be enough birds for a few days now and then, which is all I want."

"Ah, then I suppose that's why William is going off to Suffolk."

"Going off to Suffolk?"

"You didn't know? I thought perhaps that might have had something to do with your falling out with him—cutting himself loose from Hayslope, now that he's more interested in it—or ought to be."

"What we've fallen out about is— But I don't want to go into it; it's a private affair. I've told you that I haven't seen him for weeks, and he hasn't been here as much as usual. I don't know anything about his movements."

"Well, it came to me in rather a roundabout way, though as it happens I can vouch for it as far as it goes. I don't know whether I'm letting out any secrets; but a man I dined with at Brooks's the other night, talking about how the old estates were getting into the hands of—I mean, he happened to mention a place in Suffolk that belonged to a relation of his, and I understood that William was in negotiation for it. Of course I said I knew him, and he'd be all right as a neighbour; but I said that he had a place here, and a property coming to him by and by, and I was surprised to hear that he was thinking of buying another one. However, he assured me that it was so, but perhaps he was mistaken. He certainly said that William had been down to see the place, because his cousin had told him so. Nevill Goring it was—no harm in mentioning his name. I can't remember who he said his cousin was, or the name of the place, though he did mention them both, and I understood him to say it was practically fixed up. You see William is known. People talk about him now, and if he does anything it's known about; often gets into the papers too."

"Yes, I suppose so. It's difficult to believe all the same, because he would hardly buy a big place without consulting his wife, and she's been down here for the last two or three weeks, without going away. We've seen her constantly, and she's never mentioned such a thing."

"Oh, you still see her?"

"Yes. There's no quarrel with her! There'd be no quarrel with William if he were what he used to be. However, I don't want to talk about it. He'll go his own way, I suppose. If it's really true that he's thinking of buying another place, I suppose his way and mine will diverge more than ever."

"Well now, my dear Edmund, can't I do something about it? You're both friends of mine. You're more my friend than William is, but still you're both friends, of very long standing. I don't like to see you at loggerheads, and I don't see any reason for it. Besides, it's an exceptionally bad thing in this case, because there's your property, very much reduced now I'm sure, like everybody's property, and there's William with a great deal of money—really a great deal of money he must have made, or he wouldn't have been able to—well, he wouldn't be able to buy another big landed property, as apparently he's thinking of doing. You ought to be working in together, you two, not drifting apart like this."

"Yes; I know." He spoke rather sadly. "But as for William's money, I'm sick of his money, Crowborough. It seems to stand for everything. What we've actually quarrelled about is a very small thing. I know that, and I'm not going over it with you. No, you can't do anything; thank you, all the same. It began by William using his money in what I thought was an unjustifiable way. All the way through, at Hayslope, there am I adjusting things to the new conditions, as all landowners must nowadays, spending my life there, and doing more work than I've ever had to do for myself; and there's William just coming down now and then, and complicating everything with his money, throwing labour out of gear, not even consulting me in matters where I ought to be consulted, doing just what he pleases. He gets a peerage, and you tell me that the general idea is that that's owing to his money. He's quarrelled with me, so Hayslope isn't agreeable to him any longer, I suppose, and he's got enough money to go and buy another big place, just to get away from it, though it will all be his some day. His money has altered William entirely. Now he's Lord Eldridge, and I'm just a nobody of a poor country gentleman, hard hit by the war. I don't mind that—not for myself, though I do for my wife and children; but you'd think he wouldn't want to be always ramming it down my throat—his elder brother, and the head of his family, in spite of his new peerage. If I were content to sit down and take his charity, I dare say we should get on very well together. I don't know how much money he has, but I dare say he could make me perfectly comfortable at Hayslope without feeling it. But I'm not taking his charity, or his patronage either. It isn't in me to do it, not even for the sake of my family, and I'd swallow a good deal for them to have what they ought to have."

Lord Crowborough's face had become serious during this speech. "Well, I see how it is, Edmund," he said. "I see very plainly how it is; because I've always felt about William—though I've never said so—that with all his generosity—and I think there's no doubt he's a generous man; in fact I know he is—he's not quite—how shall I put it?—one of our sort. I don't know why, I'm sure, because he is by birth, and upbringing too. I suppose he's what they call a throwback. The fact is I don't think he could have made all that money, and still be making it, I suppose, if he weren't different—different altogether. The money-makers are a type apart, and they may make him a peer, and he may be a big landowner—anything you please—but the more he gets with that swim the more he resembles their type. That's what you're up against, at the bottom of it all, quarrel or no quarrel; and of course you're not at home with that type. But now, when you've said that, can't you make allowances? After all, he's your brother, and you've been good friends all your lives. Let me have a talk to William. Let me tell him that you don't want to quarrel, and—"

"Oh, you can do that if you like. I've no objection. But you've put it very plainly. He's approximating more and more to type. There's not much chance, I think, of our hitting it off again, as we used to. I stand where I did, and he's altered. Still, I agree that there's no need to quarrel with a man just because he isn't one's own sort. If you can get it on to those lines there may be a way out. I did stipulate that he should do something that I think he ought to have done of his own accord. He would have done it without question a year or two ago. But I don't care whether he does it or not now. It's gone beyond that. I shall never think of him again as I used to because he's not the same man. But there's no reason why we should live at daggers drawn—especially if he's going to withdraw from Hayslope. That's about the last straw. But I'm not going to make a fuss about it, or about anything else that he does. He can go his way, and I'll go mine. We're better apart now."

"If you feel like that about him—! Well, I'll see him and talk to him. I don't think it's quite as bad as you think, Edmund. The fact is he's made a big position for himself in the world, and—"

"Oh, yes, I know all that. So does he. That's the root of the trouble."

The conversation was broken at that point by the incursion of several young people whose activities and sociabilities for the afternoon would radiate from this garden terrace. Norman Eldridge was among them, and with him were the two young men whom he had invited to Hayslope. These he had already presented to Pamela, and they were now on either side of her, while Horsham thus dispossessed, was making himself agreeable to other guests.

The hot afternoon wore on to the coolness of evening. There was perpetual activity of white-clad youthful figures on the tennis courts; some inspection—mostly in couples—of the ancient Castle, which stood massive and grim overlooking the gay expanse of garden that surrounded it, and as if it would never quite adapt itself to its present peaceful and defenceless state; appreciation of garden beauties—also mostly in couples; general conversation from groups overlooking the courts; play of teacups on the terrace; and a general atmosphere of untroubled youthful enjoyment, tampered by the less vociferous contentment of the elders who watched or took some share in it.

But youth is seldom altogether untroubled, even when in the mass it appears most delightfully free from care. Pamela, for instance, might have forgotten, for the happy afternoon, the cloud that hung over her home, as her parents whom it most concerned seemed to be doing; the experience of a first proposal had not greatly affected her, though probably when she came to think it over alone it would seem more important than it did now. But she was unhappy about Norman.

Was he avoiding her? The idea came to her in the course of the afternoon, and grew. She was not entirely guiltless of a wish to avoid him, at first, or at least to appear to be doing so. She was not quite pleased with him, but her displeasure would melt if he sought her out, as he might be expected to do, and proved to her that she had nothing over which to disturb herself. He had more than one opportunity of securing a word or two with her apart. Almost invariably he had done so on such occasions as this, if only to share with her some laughing appreciation of the company in which they found themselves. He had produced for her inspection the first instalment of his promised supply of young men; the grin with which he had introduced them to her had shown that their conversation on that subject was in his mind, and he must have wanted to hear her observations, and to make some of his own. She was quite ready to oblige him, as a stepping-stone to an exchange of views upon a subject more serious, for her slight resentment against him soon disappeared in face of his evident wish to maintain the usual friendly relations. He did accompany her and one of his friends, who had expressed a desire to see the Castle—in Pamela's company—on a round of inspection, and was quite friendly and amusing. But when she was ready to make it easy for him to talk to her alone, he did not give her the opportunity, and by and by she became sure that he did not want to talk to her alone. Then she retired into her shell, and showed him that she was displeased with him. He didn't seem to mind that either, and pretended not to notice it. He did his best to make her laugh, and it was unfortunate that once at least he succeeded. This made her angry with herself, and she withdrew from the group which Norman was so successful in entertaining. One of his friends—the one who had inspected the Castle with them—withdrew with her, but he found that the wind had changed and the sun of her amiability no longer shone on him. She detached herself and went straight up to where Fred Comfrey was engaged in conversation with the Pershore niece, and presently Norman had the felicity of seeing her walk off with him towards the retirement of groves unseen. Though carefully refraining from a look in his direction, she was fully aware of the annoyance he immediately showed, and was glad of it.

When she had got Fred alone she was inclined to be annoyed with herself for having been forced to that means of asserting herself, and wished she had chosen Horsham for a tÊte-À-tÊte. Her feelings were warm towards Horsham, who had behaved well under his rejection, and she had seen him eyeing her rather wistfully as she and Fred had passed him. Still, Norman would not have disliked that as much as this; and this needn't last long. Fred did not appear to such advantage here as at home at Hayslope, where his status was well understood and need not be taken into account. He did not seem to belong of right to the company assembled. He had, in fact, bicycled over to Pershore Rectory, with the faint hope that the Rector's daughters, whom he knew slightly, might be going to the Castle, where he knew that Pamela was to spend the afternoon, and would take him with them. His hopes had been fulfilled. The Rector's daughters were "getting on," and could neither send away a young man reported to be eligible on the plea of an engagement, or give up their afternoon's pleasure. But he was inclined to wish that his plan had not succeeded. He had been quite well received, but he was not in flannels and could not play tennis; so that he never merged with the rest, and there was a sort of air of apology about him which did not show him up to advantage. He had never been to Pershore Castle before, and was apologetic about that, to Pamela, explaining rather anxiously exactly how he came to be there, and giving her the very impression which his explanations were intended to remove—that he had got himself in there on her account. This did not please her at all; nor did his way of taking her invitation to a stroll apart. She divined a difference in his attitude towards her, though there was nothing in his speech at which she could take offence. Her invitation was made to appear a special mark of favour, and yet one to which he seemed to think he had some right. For the first time in her intercourse with him she was forced to take into account his admiration of her, which she had hitherto been able to set aside.

She asked him, rather shortly, what it was that her father had talked to him about, for she had not seen him since that afternoon. To her surprise he said that it had nothing to do with the quarrel, and gave her to understand that there were subjects which men discussed between themselves and kept to themselves. He said this in a half-jocular manner, not in the best of taste, and she had an uneasy suspicion that she herself might have been the subject of their conversation, but immediately rejected it. Fred seemed, anyhow, to be less in awe of her father than he had shown himself until now, and she did not like that, for she thought that deference was due from him. She was in fact, coming very quickly round to Norman's stated opinion of Fred—that he might have made a success of his job, whatever it was, and done well in the war, but he was an outsider all the same. She had labelled this view as snobbery, and Norman had said: "All right, then, I'm a snob. Let's leave it at that."

Perhaps Fred, not responsive to fine shades, but sharpened by his feeling for her, and under the uneasy influence of a false shame at being where he was, divined that he was losing ground in her estimation, for he suddenly plumped out; "Well, this is the last of holidays for me. I'm off to London to get into harness again."

That changed the current of her thoughts about him. As a bold adventurer on the sea of life he was worthy of respect, and good wishes. She gave him her good wishes, and he stoically refrained from asking anything else of her, though he would have given a good deal for some word of regret that he was leaving so soon, or of desire for his return. Still, she was charmingly friendly again, and he took leave of her, and very soon afterwards of Pershore Castle, thinking that his appearance there had not turned out so badly after all. He had actually made no plans to go to London, or anywhere else, in the immediate future; his announcement of departure had been an inspiration of the moment. He would never get any further with her, hanging about Hayslope. Her tone towards him had shown him that plainly. He was a fool to have counted a little upon that surprising and gratifying invitation of hers to a few minutes of intimacy in the middle of a crowd, and to have tried to advance himself a step. And yet— What had it meant but that she was beginning to want him—a little, sometimes—as he wanted her, always. She might not know it, and she had certainly not seemed to want him very much when she had got him apart; but the stirring of her heart towards him, surely it had begun! He would go away, as soon as possible, and plunge into work, and every now and then, at intervals not too close, he would come back, and tell her of what he had been doing. She would miss him. Would she miss him? He hoped so; he thought so. He was not an altogether unhappy young man as he pedalled himself back to Hayslope.

But he had left behind him an unhappy young woman. Norman was furious with Pamela now, wouldn't look at her, much less speak to her. And she was without the conviction to uphold her that she had done right. Her eyes had been opened. She was ashamed of herself for having given Fred that mark of confidence. Norman was right. He wasn't of their sort, and it didn't do to go outside the pale for your friends. Neither of those young men whom Norman had introduced to her would have made her feel uncomfortable, as Fred had, if she had given them an ordinary mark of friendship. Pamela had burnt her fingers, for she had wanted Norman to take her invitation to Fred as rather more than an ordinary mark of friendship. He had done so, and she was not pleased with herself, nor with him, nor with Fred. But of course she wasn't going to show him that. She took no more notice of him for the rest of the afternoon than he did of her, but she made herself particularly agreeable to the more coming-on of his two friends. But this wasn't a great success either, for the friend told Norman that evening, with the attractive candour of a friend, that he thought his cousin was a peach, but somewhat hectic in her mirth, which was exactly what Pamela wasn't as a general rule.

Horsham happened to be in Judith's company when Pamela went away with Fred. He found Judith's company soothing after the laceration of spirit he had lately undergone. He had conscientiously examined himself upon Pamela's statement to him about Judith, trying to look at her with the eyes that had been attributed to him, just to see if there was anything in it, as yet unknown to himself. Certainly she was a very pretty girl, and now he came to look at her more closely not really a child any longer. It would not be at all surprising if some fellow fell in love with her, pretty soon. But she did not arouse in him the feelings that Pamela did. She was a delightful companion, and as a sister, if he ever had the luck to marry Pamela, she would be very dear to him—he felt sure of that. Yes, in a way he really loved her already, but not in that way at all. He was sure of that also, and being sure of it allowed himself to take his usual pleasure in her society, honest fellow that he was, without any misgivings of danger.

"I say," he said, "I don't much care for that fellow Comfrey. Pamela doesn't like him particularly, does she?"

"I don't know," said Judith. "I don't."

"You don't? Why?"

"I don't know why," said Judith, "but I don't," which was a thoroughly Judithian speech.

"Strikes me as rather a pushing sort of fellow," said Horsham. "I shouldn't have thought Pamela would have taken up with a fellow like that."

"How high is that tower?" asked Judith. They were sitting on the lawn in view of the Castle, looming above them.

Horsham told her. She seemed really to want to know. He thought rather sadly that Pamela had not really wanted to know how far it was from Hayslope to Pershore. Judith was sometimes more interesting to talk to than Pamela, or at least she was sometimes more easy to talk to. But perhaps that was because she was not so clever as Pamela. He knew he wasn't. But he had a good brain and was improving it all the time. He told Judith something about the course of study he was pursuing at Oxford, but she was disappointing about that. "I hate learning things," she said; "at least I hate sitting down to learn something. I like finding things out for myself."

"Well; that's the only way of finding them out, isn't it?—real stiff things, I mean."

"I don't know. Perhaps it is. When did Napoleon die?"

Such a question from Pamela might have made Horsham suspect that he was being chaffed. But Judith didn't chaff him in that way. He was obliged to confess that he was uncertain of the exact date, but would look it up for her if she wanted to know.

"I don't want to know the exact date," she said. "But the Battle of Waterloo was in 1815, and I suppose he was getting on then. I didn't know till the other day that his wife was still alive."

"His wife!"

"Well, widow, then. The Empress EugÈnie was the wife of Napoleon, and she's alive still, and lives in England."

Horsham did not laugh, or even smile at her. He felt a little shocked, but would not have let her see it for anything. "Oh, she's the wife of Napoleon the Third," he said. "The Napoleon we defeated at Waterloo was Napoleon the First, you know."

"Oh, I see," said Judith hurriedly. "Yes; of course, I ought to have known that. I'm glad I asked you, and not anybody else."

This little episode remained in Horsham's memory. He was rather surprised that Judith's astonishing ignorance did not affect him more disagreeably. But of course a young girl might very well be ignorant of the course of modern history. He himself had not known the date of the great Napoleon's death until he had looked it up afterwards. Her mistake had had the contrary effect of making him feel rather tender towards her. He quite understood that she was ashamed of it, and would have hated to be laughed at because of it. She had known he wouldn't laugh at her. That was rather touching. It was pleasant to be understood, and trusted, in that way. Dear little Judith! If only Pamela would trust him like that! Perhaps she would some day. He loved her very much, and that must surely have some weight with her in time. They were a wonderful pair, she and Judith. It wasn't often you found two girls, quite different, as charming as those two. Oh, Pamela was worth waiting and hoping for.