And so they went home through the summer evening, Pamela saying to herself over and over again that she was really happy. Now she need not dread the autumn for her father, for had not Glengall said that together they would take him to the Riviera, or farther afield to Algiers, and so would make him strong again? And had he not thought, even in his first content, of poor Mary and her hopeless love affair? Mick was to exchange into a home regiment, and a little money would smooth the way for their marriage, so that the two need not wait till some day far distant, when they should look in each other's faded faces and feel that this was not the love of long ago. Sylvia, too, was to have fine frocks and gaiety as befitted her beauty and her youth. And to think that she, Pamela, was the wonder-worker, the magician, to give her beloved ones the things that lay nearest their hearts—she, Pamela, who had always desired to give!
Only Sylvia, of them all, did not congratulate Pamela with approval.
"I don't believe you'll make him half as happy as I should have done," she said. "But never mind—it is your score, and I accept it."
And then she went off with a frown to refuse young St. Quentin for the fifth time, as she had already refused his superior officer.
"I'll do my best to make him happy," Pamela said, remembering before she slept. "Help me to make him happy," she cried, lifting her heart and her eyes.
And so she fell asleep placidly, quite unlike a girl who had been asked in marriage and had accepted only a few hours ago. Just for that one night she was troubled with no thought of Anthony Trevithick.
[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]
