Christmas had always been a great family occasion at Hayslope. For years before the William Eldridges had come to live at the Grange they had spent their Christmases at the Hall, and there had sometimes been other relations there. This year an indeterminate spinster cousin of Mrs. Eldridge's was coming, but no other guests. Lord Eldridge would be entertaining a party at Eylsham Hall, duly announced in the press.

It was this announcement that seemed to Pamela to complete and establish the breach between the two families. "Why is it?" she asked her mother. "I thought that father and Uncle William were more or less friends again now. They write to each other. Uncle William sent his love to us in a letter he wrote the other day."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Eldridge, with a sigh. "But there it begins and ends. Father would have been quite willing to make it up any time during the last few months; but Uncle William doesn't seem to want to. He's got quite away from us, you see. He's in the big world, and we're not. I suppose he doesn't think about us any more."

"But Auntie Eleanor! She writes to you, mother."

"Oh, yes," she said again. "We've never quarrelled."

"But won't it ever end, mother? Just look at the difference—what happy Christmases we used to spend all together! And now there's no idea of our being together at all. Didn't you ask them to come here for Christmas?"

"Well, I didn't tell father, but I wrote to Auntie Eleanor and asked her if they would come if we did ask them. I thought it might bring us all together again. But of course it would have been worse if we had asked them and they had refused. She wrote very nicely, as she always does; but William had already made up his party, or some of it. I dare say what happened was that he found he could get somebody that he particularly wanted then, and asked the rest to meet him—or her, or them. I don't know. When people once begin to chase other people, for their names or their positions or whatever it is that attracts them, it—well, it becomes a habit. Other sociabilities have to give way to it."

This was rather painful to Pamela. "But Auntie Eleanor isn't like that, mother dear."

It was half a question. "No," said Mrs. Eldridge, quite decisively. "She and I have often talked that over. At least, we used to, before we settled it between us, for good and all. It simply isn't worth while to make friends with anybody for any other reason than because you like them for themselves, and not for what they've got. Now you're grown up, darling, I don't mind telling you that I was rather inclined at one time—oh, years and years ago—to want to get myself in everywhere. It's easy enough, if you have a certain position to begin with, and enough money. And I was quite good-looking, when I was first married, and—"

"You are now, mother darling," said Pamela, with a laugh: "but do go on."

"I don't say that there's not some fun to be got out of it," Mrs. Eldridge continued. "Of course I don't mean just the vulgar sort of climbing; but it's amusing to feel that you belong to everything, and people want—you, instead of your wanting them. Still, it's never worth while in the long run. Eleanor saw that quite clearly, from the beginning, and she made me see it. It's one of the things that I have to thank her for."

"Oh, mother, it's dreadful that you have to be apart now. Don't you feel it very much?"

"Of course I do. But not so much as I should have done a few years ago. You're grown up now, you see. Besides, I've got used to the quiet life. I don't really want anything else now, as long as one can live without too much anxiety. I only discovered that a short time ago. Eleanor was always preaching it to me; but now she's getting farther away from it herself, poor dear. I'm sorry for her."

Pamela's direct mind was apt to be a little puzzled by her mother. It was not always easy to recognize the source of her speeches, or whether she was serious or only amusing herself. "Do you mean that you're really sorry for her?" she asked. "I suppose she needn't get away from the sort of life she likes, if she doesn't want to."

"She can't help herself. She loves William. I love father, and I want what he wants. It's the same with her. But what he wants happens to be more satisfying than what William wants. It's only rather tiresome that just as I have discovered that for myself it's beginning to be difficult to have anything at all that one wants. I've been wanting to tell you something for some time, Pam darling, but I've put it off because I went on hoping that it might not be necessary. Don't tell the others yet, but I'm afraid it has to come. We can't afford to go on living here."

Pamela looked down. "Poor old Daddy!" she said.

"Yes, it's for him I feel it more than for ourselves. It seems to be impossible for a country gentleman to live in his own house nowadays, unless he has an income apart from it. Daddy never had much that wasn't tied up, and what he did have is all gone now. I don't think we can get expenses down any farther here; it is just coming to be a great anxiety. It was I who said I thought we ought to go. He could hardly have brought himself to propose it before it became absolutely impossible, as it isn't quite, yet."

"Do you mean he is going to sell Hayslope, mummy?"

"No, darling, he couldn't do that; he only has a life interest. He'll try to let the house and the shooting. It's just that we can't afford to keep up a house of this size, for ourselves to live in. We should be quite well off in a smaller house, and with the rent for this coming in, if it can be let."

"Where should we go, mother?"

"That's the difficulty. Father wants to be here, to look after the property. If the Grange hadn't been enlarged to such an extent, we could have gone there; but there's no good thinking of that. It would cost as much to live there now as to live here. We have thought of Town Farm. It was a Manor house at one time, but it would take a lot of money to put it back now, and make it nice to live in. I'm afraid it's either that, or going quite away. But there's no need to hurry anything. We shan't go away just yet. Don't tell Judith, or the children yet."

"No, mother, of course not. Don't you think I could go out and do something? So many girls do now. I'm sure I could make my own living if I tried."

"There's no necessity, darling. And I think father would hate that more than anything. I know he would like you to stay at home until you marry."

Was this an invitation to her to unburden herself? Her mother had never mentioned marriage to her before. If it was, she did not take it up. "There are lots of things I can do at home," she said. "And Judith, too. You know we'll do all we can, mother dear."

"Oh, yes, darling. I think that if we can find a nice house somewhere in the country, much smaller than this, but big enough for us to be happy in, it will lift a good deal of the burden. Poor Daddy is getting more and more depressed about everything, though he is trying to keep it from us all the time. It's very hard that it should be like this now for men who have done what he has. It all comes from the horrible war; and yet there are some people who have done nothing but thrive on it."

There was no need to dot the i's of that speech. Pamela didn't want to talk about her uncle, even to her mother. There was no satisfaction to be gained from blaming him, but she did blame him now in her heart, and she thought that her mother did too. Would he stand by and see them leave their home without doing anything? Of course he could do something, if he wanted to. But he didn't seem to care now. Did her aunt care? She was sure that she did, but she had apparently resigned herself to the new unhappy state of things between them. Did Norman care?

He had written to Pamela from Cambridge, not less frequently than during previous terms, and in much the same way. Some of his letters had made her laugh, but not with the old light-hearted appreciation of his humour. What mattered to her most just now he never mentioned. Once he had represented himself as on the verge of another love affair, with the daughter of a Don of another college, to which he said he was thinking of migrating. But she did not smile at all at that. She was beginning to be impatient of Norman's love affairs, which never lasted more than a few weeks. This one didn't last so long as that apparently, for he did not allude to it again. If he had done so, Pamela would have written him a letter in which she would have said that she didn't want to hear any more about his philanderings, and she was inclined to regret that the opportunity was denied her. Norman never said anything about Christmas, though in previous years his letters had been full of anticipations. He seemed to be quite content at the prospect of their spending it apart.

Oh, life was unhappy now. But there remained the duty of hiding unhappiness as much as possible. Pamela was a good deal with her father in these days, and she knew that he liked to have her with him, though he never talked to her about his troubles. Well, it was something to be able to remove his mind from them. She was able to do that, though she seemed to be of so little use otherwise.

The usual preparations for Christmas went on, though on a smaller scale than before. The children mustn't know that for their elders all such preparations were something of an extra burden instead of a pleasure. Even Judith refused to be exhilarated by them. "What's the good of holly and mistletoe," she said, "with only old Cousin Annie coming? I think Uncle William's a beast. I never liked him, and now I hate him."

Pamela protested. Judith had been as fond of Uncle William as all the rest of them. "Perhaps I was when I was little," she admitted. "But I haven't liked him at all since he has been Lord Eldridge. Father ought to have been Lord Eldridge, if anybody had to be. But I hate lords, except Jim; and he isn't like a lord."

Pamela laughed. "What is he like then?" she asked.

Judith did not reply to this. "I think you ought to marry him," she said, with her sometimes disconcerting abruptness. "He wants you to, and you couldn't get anybody better. Besides, father and mother would like it. With four of us, and being rather poor now, of course they would like us to get married."

"How do you know Jim would like me to marry him?" asked Pamela.

"Because he told me so."

This was rather surprising news. Pamela would have liked to ask if he had told Judith of his proposal, but Judith saved her the trouble. "It was quite plain what he wanted," she said, "so I asked him about it. You needn't tell him that I told you so. I like Jim, and I want to see him properly treated. Besides, if you married Jim, I could come and stay with you."

"Well, you could come and stay with me whoever I married; but I don't see why you shouldn't marry yourself, as soon as I do. What did Jim say when you asked him?"

"He said there was nothing he wanted more; but he knew you didn't want it yet. I thought that was rather nice of him. Jim has a very nice sort of modesty. Most young men nowadays think such a lot of themselves."

Pamela laughed at this. "What young men?" she asked.

"Well, Norman for one. I like Norman all right, but he isn't modest, like Jim. And I don't think he's behaving very well now. He could come and see us, if he wanted to. I suppose he couldn't very well come for Christmas, and leave all the lords and ladies they are going to have to stay with them; but he might come some time. He left Cambridge long ago."

"Only just over a week ago," said Pam. But she thought herself that Norman might have come. He was staying with some friends in Ireland now. There were several young girls in the family, or in the party. Perhaps he was falling in love with one of them. As he had been there for some days, and was going to stay for another week, there would almost be time to fall in love with two, successively. Pamela was rather pleased with that idea, and thought she would write and suggest it to him. She was always on the lookout for little opportunities of scoring off Norman now.

But Norman redeemed his character altogether for the time being by writing to propose himself for Christmas at the Hall. Preparations went on with more gaiety then. With Norman there, this Christmas wouldn't be so different from others, after all.

In the week before Christmas, Colonel Eldridge went up to London, for the first time for many months, and while he was there telegraphed home that General and Mrs. Wilton were coming down with him for the week-end. This, too, was like old times. It was some time since the house had been managed in such a way as to involve no special preparation for guests of this kind, but these were old friends who had been at Hayslope before, and it was a pleasure to get ready for them, though it was somewhat of a surprise that they should be asked. "But I think I know why," Mrs. Eldridge said to Pam, "and I don't know whether to be glad or sorry. General Wilton sold his place in Ireland not long ago, and they only have a London house now. Perhaps he is thinking of taking this."

So it proved. Colonel Eldridge told Pamela about it himself, after they had gone. "They are going to the South of France after Christmas," he said, "and don't want to make any plans till they come back in the spring. But I think he'll take it. I'd rather have him here than anybody, if I've got to let the place. Shall you mind very much, do you think, Pam?"

"Dear old Daddy," said Pam, slipping her hand under his arm—they were walking together—"I shall only mind because it's so beastly for you. But it will be a weight off you, won't it, not to have to keep it all up?"

"Yes. I shan't mind as much as I thought I should, because of that. If you've got something that you can't keep going, it hardly seems to belong to you. I shall be better away from Hayslope now, and we'll find something somewhere that we shall like. We shan't have to clear out for some months, anyhow. We'll enjoy it as much as we can in the meantime."

"Does Uncle William know you are going to let the house?" she asked.

"No," he said shortly, but added after a time: "It's no good thinking of that, you know. We've got to stand on our own feet."

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, but thought all the time that Uncle William might stop the letting of the house, if he were so minded. And surely, he must be so minded! He didn't seem to care much about Hayslope himself now, leaving his own house there empty for all these months; but he couldn't want to see them leave it too. She wondered what Norman would say when he heard of it.