FullReads

Suddenly a change came in the state of affairs. Pamela produced it. It must have struck her that the increasing intimacy of Miss Liston and Chillington might become something other than “funny.”

To put it briefly and metaphorically, she whistled her dog back to her heels. I am not skilled in understanding or describing the artifices of ladies; but even I saw the transformation in Pamela. She put forth her strength and put on her prettiest gowns; she refused to take her place in the sea-saw of society which Chillington had recently established for his pleasure. If he spent an hour with Miss Liston, Pamela would have nothing of him for a day; she met his attentions with scorn unless they were undivided. Chillington seemed at first puzzled; I believe that he never regarded his talks with Miss Liston in other than a business point of view, but directly he understood that Pamela claimed him, and that she was prepared, in case he did not obey her call, to establish a grievance against him, he lost no time in manifesting his obedience. A whole day passed in which, to my certain knowledge, he was not alone a moment with Miss Liston, and did not, save at the family meals, exchange a word with her. As he walked off with Pamela, Miss Liston’s eyes followed him in wistful longing; she stole away upstairs and did not come down till five o’clock. Then, finding me strolling about with a cigarette, she joined me.

“Well, how goes the book?” I asked.

“I haven’t done much to it just lately,” she answered, in a low voice. “I–it’s–I don’t quite know what to do with it.”

“I thought you’d settled?”

“So I had, but–oh, don’t let’s talk about it, Mr. Wynne!”

But a moment later she went on talking about it.

“I don’t know why I should make it end happily,” she said. “I’m sure life isn’t always happy, is it?”

“Certainly not,” I answered. “You mean your man might stick to the shallow girl after all?”

“Yes,” I just heard her whisper.

“And be miserable afterward?” I pursued.

“I don’t know,” said Miss Liston. “Perhaps he wouldn’t.”

“Then you must make him shallow himself.”

“I can’t do that,” she said quickly. “Oh, how difficult it is!”

She may have meant merely the art of writing–when I cordially agree with–but I think she meant also the way of the world–which does not make me withdraw my assent. I left her walking up and down in front of the drawing-room windows, a rather forlorn little figure, thrown into distinctness by the cold rays of the setting sun.

All was not over yet. That evening Chillington broke away. Led by vanity, or interest, or friendliness, I know not which–tired may be of paying court (the attitude in which Pamela kept him), and thinking it would be pleasant to play the other part for a while–after dinner he went straight to Miss Liston, talked to her while we had coffee on the terrace, and then walked about with her. Pamela sat by me; she was very silent; she did not appear to be angry, but her handsome mouth wore a resolute expression. Chillington and Miss Liston wandered on into the shrubbery, and did not come into sight again for nearly half an hour.

“I think it’s cold,” said Pamela, in her cool, quiet tones. “And it’s also, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. I shall go to bed.”

I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to attribute the “slowness” (which had undoubtedly existed) to me, so I took my revenge by saying with an assumption of innocence purposely and obviously unreal:

“Oh, but won’t you wait and bid Miss Liston and Chillington goodnight?”

Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made bold to smile.

Pamela’s face broke slowly into an answering smile.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Wynne,” said she.

“No?” said I.

“No,” said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went she looked over her shoulder, and still smiling, said, “Wish Miss Liston good-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to Sir Gilbert will wait very well till to-morrow.”