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words, looks, and innuendoes. Aunt Rosa and Power—it seemed to Pamela that they never ceased to torture her. Their arguments rang in her ears all day, broke her sleep at night, and filled her dreams. Uncle Markham, who might have been a weapon of defence, proved a broken reed. It was not entirely his fault, perhaps he never heard the whole truth. Over and over again, away from him, Pamela resolved to tell him the whole story, in spite of his wife’s part in it; but, face to face with him, kindly, prejudiced, ineffectual, the words froze on her lips.

“And you know you can’t leave us till we’ve heard of a chaperon for you, anyway. I should never hear the end of it from Sophia if I send you off unattended—you know that besides, I shouldn’t like it myself, child. I’ll begin to make enquiries, if you are so set on going, but meanwhile you must just put up with us a little longer.”

“And perhaps,” Pamela’s weary brain reminded her for the hundredth time, “perhaps you will find you are even worse off when you get home. You don’t understand really—it may be true, what Aunt Rosa says. And if all the relations say that there is nothing for you to do but marry Alick Power, how can you go on refusing?”

She shivered, staring at the peaceful country with unseeing eyes. “I think I shall go mad if this goes on much longer,” she thought dully. “I’m getting—so very tired—as if I couldn’t fight—couldn’t even think. Something has got to happen.”