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and even like if she probed deep enough. Surely she had learnt by now not to pay too much attention to the mere outer shell. If only the manners of his outer shell were a little less in evidence! It would be such a relief if he forgot sometimes to look after her comfort so elaborately, or discovered the way to do it without attracting her attention. . . . Then she reproached herself for ingratitude. After all, he was not an Englishman (Pamela was intensely English!), and he did seem to wish her to enjoy her visit and have everything she wanted. It was not his fault if he could not give her just what she desired, offered in the way that she liked. So she forced herself to respond more graciously; to look pleased at his suggestions for rides and walks, to talk to him, even though she feared the subject would not interest him, while Uncle Markham smoked after supper, and Aunt Rosa sat, unsmiling and monosyllabic, in her rocker in the corner.

The result was disastrous. She had not considered that, little as she understood Power, he had even less idea of her and her tactics. He congratulated himself on his progress with a smile of certain victory as he sat and watched Pamela’s flower-like face bending above some dainty piece of work as she talked and laughed. She was like a whole garden of roses at sunrise—as sweet and unconscious (the simile is not Power’s); and into his eyes crept a look that would have terrified her, in his heart was a growing flame, stronger than anything he had ever known. She did not like to go too fast, evidently. His usual rapid methods might startle her. He took great credit unto himself for his patience, and waited until one evening when Pamela’s visit had lasted for more than a fortnight.

Then he asked her casually to come into the garden—there was a moon and things looked rather fine.

“I know it’s lovely, but isn’t it a wee bit cold?” (She had been very nice to him all that day. They had had a