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“No, it wouldn’t do. I couldn’t.”

“You might be nice to me,” he said.

“Tony, why did you never speak to me in that tone before?” she said curiously, like a child.

He laughed. “You would have bitten my head off if I had! You always snubbed me———”

“Oh! You snubbed me! Nobody ever was so horrid to me before. And I tried to be nice to you, especially the last night, and you only———”

She stopped dead.

“We’re much better friends now, aren’t we?” said Tony casually.

She smiled the little, unhappy smile that hurt him more than any tears, and looked down at the gorgeous needlework—Miss Sidmouth’s again—lying on her lap, and frowned at her small, pricked fingers. By way of changing the conversation she held one up for Tony’s inspection.

“See what a bad worker I am! I always prick my fingers. But I’m not used to this kind of embroidery.”

“What is it?”

“Crewel-work! It’s Miss Sidmouth’s really.”

“Cruel work! I should think it was. Why doesn’t she give you pretty things to do?”

“She thinks it is pretty.” Pamela laughed a little, but Tony had a scowling brow. Those little pricked fingers! Not a tragedy, surely, and yet they made his heart ache. Certainly no girl was ever less equipped for any life but a silken-lined one, and she had not the least idea of what she was out to face. It was unbearable. Further private conversation was cut short by the entrance of Miss Sidmouth, but after lunch Pamela and he were sent for a walk, as Miss Sidmouth was going to visit a friend, and Pamela was not needed. They enjoyed the first half of the walk very much—at least Pamela did—for Tony was young, and a cousin, so that one could be very much at home