Colonel Eldridge was sitting in his room over the fire, which was unusual with him in the middle of the morning. But the weather was atrocious, and he had the beginnings of a cold on him, which disinclined him for activity either physical or mental. The door opened, and Fred Comfrey was announced. He was a little surprised to see him, for though he had frequented the Hall when at Hayslope he had not come straight to him; and this was his first appearance in the Christmas holidays. But his visit was not unwelcome. Colonel Eldridge was not used to sitting idle, and a little chat would be agreeable to him.

"Well, and how's the world using you?" he asked. "I hope you've been making a success of it."

It seemed that Fred had been making a considerable success of it. He had been given a partnership, which he had not expected for a year at least, and his firm had just as much business as they could tackle. "My job is to organize ourselves for taking on more still," he said, "and it's taking me all my time. I hardly thought I should be able to get down here for more than just Christmas Day. But I said I must have three or four days off. Fortunately I'm in a position to do what I please now. I couldn't have insisted three months ago."

"Oh, well, it's an advantage to be your own master. Very few of us are. There's generally something to prevent us doing what we like. I hope it means a good income to you. It seems to me you must be in business of some sort nowadays to make enough to live on."

Fred enlarged upon what it meant to him in the way of income—a quite substantial one in the present, and the certainty of a big one in the future. He went into more detail than seemed necessary, and at considerable length. Colonel Eldridge said: "Well, I like to hear of a young man making good. You seem to be well up on the ladder already, and you're what?—twenty-eight? You were just a year older than Hugo, weren't you? You'll have to think of getting married and settling down soon."

Fred's colour deepened, and he gave a little catch of the breath, but said in a fairly steady voice: "That's what I've come to see you about. I want your permission to ask Pamela."

Colonel Eldridge sat absolutely still, and his face showed nothing. But his voice did, when he said, after a pause: "That's an entirely new idea to me. Have you any reason to suppose that Pamela would—would be prepared for such a declaration?"

The ice was broken, and Fred spoke more easily, but with his eyes fixed on the fire. "I've never tried to make love to her," he said. "I didn't think I had a right to. I've hoped that I should be in a position to come to you like this some day, but I didn't think the time would come so soon. I should have to make my own way with her, and I shouldn't expect to do it at once. But I thought I ought to satisfy you first that I shall be in a position to give her what you would have a right to expect for her."

Colonel Eldridge's eyes had rested on him during the progress of this speech. He saw before him a young man with a face of some power, but little or no refinement; with a strong-growing crest of thick dark hair; with a sturdy frame in clothes that contrasted somewhat with his own old but well-cut suit of tweeds, neatly-laced thick-soled boots, and neatly-adjusted collar and tie. The hands that lay on his knee, or grasped the arm of his chair, were broad and short-fingered, and their nails were not quite clean.

"You don't think, then, that what I've a right to expect for my daughter goes beyond an income large enough to support her?"

Fred stirred uncomfortably. He must have felt the latent hostility. But his voice did not change. "I don't think that," he said. "I only meant that you'd have a right to expect that first of all. I suppose I couldn't expect you—never have expected you—to welcome the idea, exactly. I didn't begin life with the same advantages as you might expect from anyone who wanted to marry your daughter; but I've made good already, as you've said, and if I may say so without boasting, I'm going farther than most men. I'm determined to; and if I could look forward to—I mean I should have an added incentive, and I don't think there's much I couldn't do in the world. In ten years' time, or less, I don't think you'd have reason to be ashamed of me, as a son-in-law."

"Oh, ashamed! There's no need to talk like that. And one can't take up the position that fathers used to take up over their daughters' marriages. I don't know that you're not right, and the only thing one is entitled to stipulate for nowadays is an assured and sufficient income. Even that seems to have been considered unreasonable in lots of the marriages one has seen take place during the war."

"Yes, I know. But I've waited until I could assure you of a sufficient income, and I've come to you first, as I suppose I shouldn't have done if I hadn't recognized that I was aiming higher than what might be considered my deserts."

"Well, what is it that you want of me exactly? I've no reason to be offended at your coming to me, you know. I've known you for most of your life, and you've been welcomed into my family. I treated you as a friend, myself, only the other day."

"Oh, that was nothing," said Fred. "I was only too glad to be able to be of use to you. I should have been anyhow."

Colonel Eldridge winced a little. "I'll say quite plainly," he said, in a slightly harder voice, "that, from my own point of view, I should be disappointed if my daughter didn't make what would be called a better marriage; but I say it without meaning any offence to you. If she chose to accept you, I shouldn't—I shouldn't refuse my permission, though I think—yes, I think I should stipulate for a certain time to elapse. Will that satisfy you?"

Perhaps it was rather more than Fred had expected, though it was not precisely encouraging. Colonel Eldridge seemed a good deal farther from him than on the last occasion he had talked to him in this room. "I want my chance with her," he said.

"Well, what do you mean by that? You mustn't go to her, you know, saying that I'm in favour of your—your suit, or whatever you like to call it. How far have you got with her? I say again that this is a complete surprise to me, and I shouldn't have thought that she could have given you any encouragement to go upon."

"I don't know that she has. One has one's own private hopes. We have been friends; I think I can say as much as that. I was a friend of Hugo's; she's been a sort of inspiration to me all my life. Especially lately, it has made a different man of me to think of her. I've been a rough sort of fellow—had to be, in some ways, in the fight I've had to put up. I'm not good enough for her; of course I'm not. But who is?"

Colonel Eldridge's face had grown a little softer. "You talk of her in the right sort of way," he said. "Well, I must leave it to her. If she says yes, I shan't say no."

"Thank you," said Fred gratefully. "I'm glad I came to you first of all. It seemed the right thing to do, though it wasn't very easy."

He laughed awkwardly, and, also rather awkwardly, got himself out of the room. When he had left it Colonel Eldridge walked up and down, as his habit was when he was disturbed in his mind. He was very disturbed now, as the frown on his face and his impatient actions testified. Presently he made as if to go out, but turned again irresolutely, and then rang the bell. He asked the maid who answered it whether Mr. Comfrey was still in the house. Yes, he was in the schoolroom, with the young ladies. His reception of that piece of news probably gave the maid material for talk afterwards, though he was not aware of having shown any feeling. Then he went to the morning-room to find his wife.

She was alone there, and he told her of what had happened. She laughed, unconcernedly. "With a pushing young man of that sort," she said, "I thought it would come to a proposal sooner or later. But I didn't think he would be so foolish as to go to you first."

He didn't understand this. "Why foolish?" he asked, with some impatience. "Surely you haven't seen this coming and done nothing to stop it?"

"What was there to stop? We couldn't not have him in the house because he was likely to fall in love with Pamela. Now we needn't have him more than we want to."

"What do you mean? I said I shouldn't refuse, if Pamela wanted him. He wouldn't be my choice, or yours; but if she...."

"If Pamela wanted him! My dear! Wait till he's gone—I shan't ask him to stay to lunch—and ask Pamela if she wants him."

Pamela came into the room at that moment. Colonel Eldridge bent his brows upon her. He couldn't quite get it out of his head that she must have given encouragement.

"Where is Fred?" asked Mrs. Eldridge.

"In the schoolroom," said Pamela, and went to the bookcase, which she opened.

"He has just been with father," said Mrs. Eldridge; but Colonel Eldridge stopped her. "I don't think that anything ought to be said," he began.

Mrs. Eldridge laughed. "You didn't promise to say nothing, I suppose," she said.

"No; but—"

"He came to father, Pam, to ask if he had any objection to his marrying you, supposing you had no objection."

Pamela blushed deeply, but after a glance at her father said calmly: "I hope you told him that you had, Daddy."

Colonel Eldridge, standing in front of the fire, straightened himself, and smiled. "I told him it wasn't the sort of marriage I expected for you," he said, "but it was for you to decide and not me. I say, I didn't mean to discuss it like this, ten minutes afterwards, with him actually in the house."

"Perhaps we had better wait until he has gone," said Mrs. Eldridge. "Were you going back to the schoolroom, Pam?"

"Well, I wasn't," said Pam; "but I can, if you like."

"There!" said Mrs. Eldridge. "Now I think you can go back to your room, dear, and wait a little, without too much anxiety."

Later on there was another short confabulation, the result of which was that Colonel Eldridge wrote a note to Fred to say that he had talked to his daughter, who had told him that it was quite impossible that she should ever come to look upon him in the way he desired. They would be pleased to see him again, on the terms on which he had come to the Hall before, but it would perhaps be as well to let a little time elapse. After which he returned to his easy chair in front of the fire, rather inclined to be puzzled at the suddenness of this new episode, and the celerity with which it had been brought to an end. What Fred thought about it was not made clear, for he did not answer the note, and was not in church on Christmas morning, though he was known to be still at the Vicarage.

All this passed on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, which was Christmas Eve, Norman came.

Norman was in bright spirits, and the whole house responded to them, although Colonel Eldridge, still under the influence of his cold, kept mostly to his room. He was anxious, however, not to give Norman reason to think that he was keeping out of his way, and asked him in for a talk during the afternoon, when he told him how glad he was that he had come, and in such a way as to give the impression that he was thanking him for coming.

"Well, I simply had to, Uncle Edmund," said Norman. "I couldn't have stuck it anywhere else, not even at home. They've got rather a ponderous lot up there this time, and they can do without me all right, though I said I'd go back there the day after Christmas. I think mother would have liked to come too, but of course she's got to play hostess to all the magnates. You wouldn't have thought you could have got so many magnates away from their own turkeys at Christmas time, but the shoot is really awfully good. We had a great day yesterday."

He gave corroborative detail, and they were soon in the midst of a talk on sport, in which Colonel Eldridge took his part almost with enthusiasm. Nothing was said about the estrangement, but what was perfectly clear was that neither Lady Eldridge nor Norman considered it as having altered anything of their affection for the family at the Hall. No change, however, seemed to be indicated in the attitude of Lord Eldridge. Norman did not eschew mention of him, when his name would naturally have come into the conversation, but there was nothing to show that he had been sent on an errand of reconciliation.

Norman hastened to assure Pamela, in answer to inquiries, that his joyous state of mind was not due to his having at last found the right girl in the Irish country house. "No," he said. "There were some bright spirits among them, but not one that I could have gone through life with. I am far more exacting than I was. I told you about Donna Clara, didn't I?"

"I don't think so. At least I don't remember her name for the moment. Could you afford to give me a card index for a Christmas present? I was reading an advertisement the other day, and I think it is just the thing I want, to be able to refer to any of them at a moment's notice."

Norman laughed freely. "That's jolly good, Pam," he said. "Jolly good. If I could only find somebody who could say that sort of thing. Of course she'd have to be as pretty as you too, and you don't find 'em like that in every basket of peaches. Margaret came nearest to you, but—"

"What has become of Margaret? I did think something might happen there, when it had gone on for a fortnight. Or was it only ten days?"

"That's not quite so good, Pam. I saw Margaret last week. We met at a play, and had a word together between the acts. Rather moving, it was. I think we both felt that a chapter in our long-past lives, though closed, would always remain as a tender and delicate memory. In years to come, when she's a duchess on her own, and I'm a minor middle-aged lord, with a chin-beard and a tummy, we shall get rather sentimental with one another. Perhaps we shall fix up a match between my Clarence and her Ermyntrude. But I was going to tell you about Donna Clara. I call her that because her father is a Don of Clare, not because she's Spanish or Portugese, because she isn't. She's a peach; I will say that for her; and dances a treat. But I'm no longer thinking of migrating to Clare College on her account."

"Why not? Is she quite brainless? You don't seem to mind them having scarcely any, but I suppose it would be an objection if she hadn't got beyond words of one syllable."

"Don't try too hard, Pam. Something good will slip out if you wait for it. So far from being brainless, Donna Clara— But why pursue these futile recriminations? She's the last. I shan't go about looking for it any more. Perhaps I shall live and die a bachelor. I recognized all the symptoms with Donna Clara. I was taken with her. I did lean out of my window and think about her when I got home; only it was so damn cold that I shut it again directly. I did take all the trouble in the world to see her again. But when I did, that was the end of it. I could have gone on, but I didn't. I saw that I should be suffering from an agreeable sort of fever for a few weeks, and then I should recover, and have it all to go through again. Pam dear, it isn't good enough."

"Well, I'm not sorry you've come to that conclusion," said Pam. "It came home to me when the affair with Margaret fizzled out. I think the whole business is rather tiresome. You've got lots of other things to do. I suppose a man can go pottering on like that, playing with his emotions. A girl would be rather a beast if she did it. But even in a man I think it's spoiling something or other. I think you're quite right to give it up, if you really mean to."

Norman showed himself a trifle offended over this. "I don't know that you need take it as solemnly as all that," he said. "We've had larks together about it, but I can keep it to myself, if you'd rather."

Pam's eyes filled with tears, which surprised her as much as they did Norman when he saw them. "Oh, don't let's quarrel, even in fun," she said. "It's all unhappy enough without that." Then she broke down and cried, but dried her eyes immediately, angry with herself. "I've had a horrid thing happen to me," she said. "I didn't mean to tell you about it, but I always have told you everything, almost."

He took her hand. "Dear little Pam," he said. "I know everything is perfectly beastly for you now. I can't do anything about it yet, but you know I hate it as much as you do. I've really come here because of that—at least, you know I should hate not being with you at Christmas. I determined I'd be as merry and bright as possible, but I haven't always felt like it when I've thought about you. If you want to talk over things quietly I'm quite ready."

She gave his hand a squeeze, and withdrew hers. "It isn't about leaving here," she said. "I mind that for poor old Daddy's sake, and it's all part of the general horridness which makes everything different. I suppose I shouldn't mind about this if it weren't for being unhappy about other things."

Then she told him about Fred. "I suppose I did give him some encouragement," she said, "though of course I never meant to." She smiled ruefully. "Perhaps it was that afternoon at Pershore Castle that brought it on me. I was annoyed with you rather, and did it to make you annoyed with me, which you were."

"Oh, yes, I quite understood that," he said. "But why do you let it worry you, Pam dear? You've got rid of the fellow—pretty easily too. You might have had to get rid of him yourself."

"I know. I'm glad I was saved that. I don't know why I feel it as I do, though I've tried to find out. I can't really blame Fred. Why should I blame him for wanting me? And he didn't even bother me. He went to father."

"And I expect he wishes he hadn't now. I can tell you why you feel it, without looking up any words in a dictionary. He's so far beneath you in every way that it's like a degradation to have him even thinking about you in that way. As for bringing it on—I don't think you could have helped it—a pushing common bounder like that, who wouldn't understand your just being friendly with him. It would have had to come, sooner or later."

"Perhaps you're right, though I don't feel it quite like that. I think I've got myself to blame somewhere. Still, I'm well out of it, and I dare say I shall get over the horrid feeling in time. I hope I shan't have to see him again—not for a long time."

"Of course you'll get over it; and you needn't see him any more, ever—in any way that will matter to you. I wish I could say the same for myself; but the odd thing is that he's got himself in with the governor—in business. He says he's good at it, and a nice enough fellow, who did well in the war. I'm all for treating fellows well who did well in the war, but you do get a bit fed up with some of them, whom you'd never have known but for the old war. I don't suppose Mr. Comfrey would have dared to think about you, before the war. Oh, we've got a lot up against the Kaiser. Let's forget about him, Pam, and forget all about the other bothers, and have a jolly Christmas."