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“Well, you won’t know the people I write about either, but if we talk of ourselves we’ll get over that difficulty, and I’d much rather hear about you than of any of your friends.”

“But I don’t suppose much will happen to me.”

“I hope it won’t,” he thought. “I shall like to hear, anyhow—” he smiled a little. “After all, Pamela, we are cousins. Now that you are leaving to-day I realise it more than I ever did. And I suppose it’s good-bye for a long time.” He held out his hand.

“You’ll be gone by the time I come back from the Eastons’ this evening, I’m afraid.”

“Yes—we’re going by the half-past four train. Good-bye.”

“Say ‘Good-bye, Tony.’”

She smiled and repeated it obediently. Her eyes were serious like a child’s. It struck him with a pang that he would never see her again, or hear her pretty voice, and he wanted very badly to kiss her.

“Good-bye, Pamela. Good luck.”

(No, it was absurd, it would startle her—she must never think that it wasn’t an ordinary good-bye.)

“Remember me to Miss Sidmouth.”

She sat thoughtful, absently watching him as he walked down the street.

Tony and Alison hardly spoke until shortly before the time of his departure next day. Alison was seriously vexed and he was dogged, but he came to her then looking comparatively meek.

“Just to say good-bye,” he observed.

“Good-bye, Tony,” said Alison in her gentlest voice.

“Oh, Dream Lady dear, don’t be mad with me, and haughty. I can’t help it.”

“You can perfectly well help it.”