Pam sat in the window of her own little room with her chin in her hands, gazing over the summer-dark landscape, her air listless, and her eyes apathetic.
"It is lonely, Sylvia," she said, scarcely turning her head as her sister entered.
"You never used to find it so," said Sylvia. "I remember the time when Carrickmoyle held all the delights for you."
"That was when we were little girls in short frocks, and led poor Mick into scrapes."
"Many a year ago," said Sylvia. "When you struck Anthony Trevithick with the sun-bonnet that was intended for the red cock——"
Pamela's heightened colour assured Sylvia of what she wanted to know.
"Pam," she said, "why don't you make it straight with Anthony Trevithick?"
"How do you know there is anything to make straight?"
"Rubbish!" said Sylvia, with quiet scorn.
"Oh, Sylvia!" said Pamela, "you don't understand. I am tired of love and lovers. I only want to be let alone. I have suffered too much."