"Oh, do come to the point, Norman. You're getting as long-winded as one of the old almshouse women. When did you call Margaret Margaret? That's the important thing."
"Yes, I know it is. It was a thrill, Pam. I didn't do it as if I'd done it by accident. I did it loud and bold—at least, not loud; I thought it would try the old Dutch too much. But it was all quite simple. When we said good-bye, I looked at her straight, and said: 'Good-bye, Margaret.'"
"I think it was rather bold—if not crude."
"No, dear; not crude. Not crude at all. I put a world of meaning into it—the auld hackneyed phrase, which may mean so little and may mean so much."
Pamela laughed. "I don't believe you're in love with her at all, if you can make fun of it," she said.
"How little you know, Pam! I jest to hide my emotions. I've fed on that sweet moment ever since."
"You've told me of other moments rather like it. I suppose her eyes dropped before yours."
"They did not. That's where she's different from all other girls—except you."
"Thanks awfully, Norman. I'll try and keep my eyes from dropping if it ever happens to me. But from what you've said before I thought they ought to drop. What did she do then—or say?"
"She looked at me straight, and said: 'Good-bye, Norman,' with a little half smile."
Pamela considered this. "That was the end, then," she said.
"Yes, but what an end, Pam! It was the beginning too. You can see what a thrill it was, can't you?"
"Yes, I think I can," she said slowly.
"Mind you, this was the very first time. Up to then there hadn't been a word or a sign. That's what makes it something to remember, you know. Oh, Pam! It's a heavenly feeling being in love. And it's such a score having somebody like you to tell it to. I don't know who I should have told if I hadn't had you—my tailor, I dare say; I shouldn't have been able to keep it to myself, and I owe him something which it isn't quite convenient to pay just yet. I told her about you, you know."
"Did you?"
"Oh, yes. I always do talk about you when I get really confidential."
"What did you tell her? And what did she say?"
"She was very sweet about you, and said you were just the sort of girl she would like to have for a friend. A lot of her friends were such ninnies."
"I never meet that sort of girl now," said Pamela with a sigh. "If only I hadn't had flu when Auntie Eleanor asked me to stay with you in London, I suppose I should have met her."
"Yes, that was jolly bad luck. We should all three have had a jolly good time together."
Pamela laughed again. "Perhaps I should have had somebody of my own," she said. "I'm old enough now, you know, Norman."
"Of course you are. You're just the same age as Margaret, as a matter of fact. You'd have had 'em swarming. But there are precious few of them I should think good enough for you. I say, old girl, what about Jim Horsham?"
"Well, what about him?"
"I don't think he's good enough, you know, though he is a Viscount."
"I like Jim. I've known him all my life."
"He's a good chap, but he's a desperate dull dog. Don't go falling in love with Jim, Pam."
"I'm not likely to fall in love with him."
"It occurred to me this afternoon that he showed some slight inclination to fall in love with you. There was a sort of concentrated heaviness on him whenever he was with you. I suppose he'd sparkle if he could, under emotion, but as he can't, he's got to be duller than usual. Perhaps there's nothing in it. But I shouldn't blame him if he did fall in love with you. In fact, I should think it rather cheek, in a way, if he didn't. He's not likely to meet anybody more worth falling in love with. But it isn't good enough, Pam."
"Well, I shouldn't worry about it, if I were you. Jim isn't my ideal, though he's a nice old thing, and I think you're too superior about him altogether. Did you know Fred Comfrey had come home?"
"Fred Comfrey!" Norman frowned. "I shouldn't think you're likely to fall in love with him," he said.
"Oh, bother falling in love! I'm leaving that to you at present. But there aren't many people to play with about here just now. He makes another one. He's much improved."
"Oh, Pam, he's an awful creature. Surely, you're not going to have anything to do with him!"
"I used to hate him; but he's quite different now. I should never have known him. You know he went out to China, before you came to live here, and he never came home until he joined up for the war. He did very well in the war—got his Commission quite soon, and the Military Cross. He was badly wounded too, and isn't fit yet. I'm sorry for him; and really, Norman, he's quite nice. Anyhow, we couldn't not have him to play with us, because of Mr. and Mrs. Comfrey. I expect Auntie Eleanor will ask him here too. He only came yesterday."
"Well, I suppose you've got to give everybody his chance. He was an unmitigated beast as a boy, but perhaps he's improved. He couldn't very well have got any worse. Still, it does rather stick in my gizzard that he should be making friends with you, as I suppose he'll want to. I should be a bit cautious if I were you, Pam. After all, one does know something of what a man is, when one has known him as a boy. I should say that Mr. Fred Comfrey was a nasty specimen, even if he has succeeded in disguising it, as he used not to. How long is he staying here?"
"I think he may stay in England altogether. He has done very well in business in China, and thinks he may be able to carry on in London."
"I wish he'd stayed in China. But how long is he staying in Hayslope?"
"For some time, I think. He had to go back to China, directly he was demobbed, and hasn't had a holiday since the war. You ought to be nice to him, Norman. Poor Hugo liked him. He talked to me very nicely about Hugo this morning."
"When did you see him?"
"After church. Mother asked him to lunch, but he thought he'd better go home."
"He wasn't at all a good friend for Hugo, you know."
"Perhaps not; but that's so long ago. Hugo improved too, afterwards."
Norman acquiesced perfunctorily. He knew that Hugo had not at all improved, afterwards, but also that Pamela didn't. "Well, I'll try to forget what he used to be like," he said. "But don't let's talk about him any more. Let's talk about Margaret."
CHAPTER V
THE FAMILY
Colonel Eldridge rode into his stable-yard and delivered up his horse to Timbs, who came hobbling out to receive it with a cheerful morning air and a general appearance of satisfaction with himself and his circumstances. Yet there were those who would have said that Timbs had no particular reason to be pleased with the way things had gone for him.
He had come to Hayslope Hall as groom ten years before, and had succeeded the old coachman four years later. He might have considered himself lucky then, for he was only twenty-six years of age. He had half a dozen horses in his stables and two grooms under him. There was also a chauffeur for the big car and the little runabout. Timbs had a young wife and a new baby, and comfortable quarters in which to keep them. In fact there seemed nothing left for him to desire, unless it was another baby of a sex complementary to the first one.
Then the war came. Timbs joined up among the first, and was turned into a good