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—she was so tired—that the tears might show in her eyes or sound in her voice.

“I—I don’t understand,” said Tony. “Alison never told me—she said—are you staying here, or what?”

“Yes, I’m staying here,” said Pamela.

“Then—but Alison said a Miss Sid-something and her companion———” He stopped again.

“I’m the companion,” said Pamela. She kept her voice low; it was easier than not to let it tremble.

“But no, you aren’t. Are you mad, or am I? You’re Lady Trent.”

“You are mad, I think,” said Pamela, and her hopeless little voice quite robbed the statement of its aggressiveness. “You know very well that I am not Lady Trent any more. I—I never was. I’m Pamela Learmonth. The—other’s yours.”

Tony’s brown face greyed and deep lines showed suddenly in it.

“My God!” he said under his breath, and caught her wrists in a hard grip. She winced a moment, but did not pull away. He spoke again.

“Tell me what you mean. I don’t understand at all. Why do you say that your name’s Learmonth and not Lady Trent? Why are you masquerading here as a companion?”

“It isn’t a masquerade,” said Pamela miserably, but steadily. “Learmonth is my name; it was my father’s. The title belongs to you. Of course, when I heard . . . I came away . . . and . . . Miss Sidmouth said I could come with her. . . .”

Tony dropped her wrists and covered his eyes for a moment. “Oh, God!” he groaned, very quietly. “What have I done?”

Pamela watched him, rather scared. She also thought dully: “He might have thought of that before he told