Mr. Graydon returned to the drawing-room, rubbing his hands together.
"What a charming woman!" he said, coming up to the fire.
"I call her a cat!" said Sylvia, concisely.
"Oh, Sylvia!" cried Mary Graydon and her father simultaneously; but Pamela said nothing. Lady Jane, for all her empressement, had not made Pamela believe in her; indeed, Lady Jane was not sufficiently an actress to deceive any but the most simple people. It was new to her to play a part—to pretend fondness and friendship where she felt arrogant dislike; and, to give her her due, she had played it badly.
The day after Mr. Graydon had gone to the horse-fair with Lord Glengall, he came out of the study as Pamela was going languidly upstairs, and called her in. He put her in a comfortable chair by the fire, and then stood leaning on the dusty mantelpiece, and regarding her with a wistful and tender gaze.
"Not well, Pam?" he said at last.
"A little out-of-sorts," she answered, dropping her eyes before his gaze.
"When did it begin, Pam—this being out-of-sorts? Up to Christmas I thought you were blooming like a wild rose."
Pamela made a movement as if to escape.