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Things looked rather different in the morning. The first thing that met her eyes was a note in Power’s handwriting, pushed under the door. Merely two lines which said, “I’ll be good. Please trust me. I’ll be anything you like so long as you’re not angry. Forgive me.”

Well, perhaps she was making rather much of it all. She would try to forgive him, but as for trusting him again—that was not to be expected. There should be no more rides or walks—she wished she need never see him again. She would have given a great deal to pack her trunk that morning and go away at once, but two people stood in the way of that plan—Aunt Sophia on one hand and Uncle Markham on the other. Explanations of her hurried departure to either of them would be almost impossible. She knew so well what Aunt Sophia would say, and she felt she could not face it. And Uncle Markham? She could imagine that dialogue too.

“You want to leave us so soon, Pamela? Why?”

“Because your stepson kissed me.”

Uncle Markham would certainly consider that reason inadequate. How could she make him see that though kissing might not be a crime it was enough to fill her with such a loathing for Power that she could not bear the idea of living under the same roof with him any longer? Of course one knew that lots of girls let men kiss them—even quite nice girls that one liked—but she had never been kissed in all her life before; she would never like it, under any circumstances, and that way———! She shivered at the