"Perhaps she won't, Sir Anthony. She's fond of you, you see."
"Oh, Miss Sylvia!" cried Anthony Trevithick, flushing delightedly through his tan.
"Oh, yes! she's fond of you. I'm not going to talk about her secrets, but I know how it is. I knew all along. That is why I was so vexed with her—when—— Never mind. You want to see Pamela, then? Well, just wait for me a minute outside this gate. I will come back with you then, and find Pamela for you."
"You are awfully good."
"Perhaps I'm glad to get rid of Pam. She's prettier than I am, though some people don't think so. Perhaps I'm afraid of her stealing my admirers."
"I believe it is only your goodness to me."
"And to Pam. She's not the same Pam she was a year ago. If you make her like her old self, I shall forgive you even that you left us forlorn and unsquired at that famous festivity for which you should have returned."
"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I shan't believe that."
She did not try Anthony Trevithick's patience by keeping him waiting long at the churchyard gate. She was gone only a minute or two before she returned, her basket empty of its flowers, and her face, which had gained so much in character and sweetness during the year, a little overshadowed.
When they reached Carrickmoyle, she brought Anthony Trevithick through the sunny hall where the door stood, as ever, hospitably open, and into the big drawing-room. "Stay here till I find Pam," she said. She went upstairs two steps at a time in the boyish way he remembered. He listened with a smile on his face till the sound of the footsteps died away. Then he began to walk up and down nervously.