"No, I see she hasn't," went on Lady Jane; "and, of course, the boy would be equally reticent. He has been in love with Kitty all his life. She is his ideal. Anthony cannot bear your modern damsel, romping about among the pursuits of men till she has neither voice nor complexion left. A delicate and graceful creature like Kitty is his ideal."
Pamela made no comment on this confidence. She never thought of not believing it, as a more sophisticated girl might.
"Ah!" she said in her own heart, "I was the entanglement, after all, and she was the true love."
And then she remembered oddly Sylvia's contemptuous disbelief in the love of young men.
"I'm afraid you are tired," said Lady Jane, as the conversation threatened to become more and more difficult. "Shall we say 'Good-night'? You must be fresh for Kitty to-morrow."
Pamela accepted her release thankfully. When she had reached her own room, and was alone, she knelt and hid her face in the bed-clothes, and considered Lady Jane's astounding disclosure.
It did not seem to her that it admitted of doubt. Anthony's own conduct bore it out fully. For the moment he had had a fancy for her. She was not yet at the point of doubting its genuineness—but when he went away he forgot her, and his allegiance returned to its lawful owner.
The humiliation was bitter, but it did not stir her resentment at the moment nearly so much as Lady Jane's insolence about her father.
"And to think," cried Pamela hotly, "that I have eaten the woman's bread and endured such a horrible time here simply because I would not go home and let them know things had not been right! And to think how my father loved Sir Gerald Trevithick and his people for his sake! I shall never cease to hate the name from henceforth."