They lunched in a vaulted stone hall, decorated with armour and ancient weapons, but Lord and Lady Crowborough, though both descended from ancestors who might have worn the armour and wielded the weapons, made it appear rather commonplace. Lord Crowborough was genial, and rather heavily playful with the girls, and especially with the niece, who responded to him in the way required, and Lady Crowborough, who had begun by being stately, soon thawed into almost profuse friendship towards Colonel Eldridge on her right and Judith on her left. Horsham sat next to Judith, who was inclined to be silent. Pam was on the other side of the table, next to the niece, and his eyes were frequently attracted to her. He might possibly have told the niece how it was with him, for she made efforts to include them both in conversation. But it is more likely that, guided by some subtle instinct, she was, unknown to herself, preparing for the years of cousinship ahead, when Horsham would sit where his father sat now, and his wife, whoever she might be, would invite her to pay long visits to them.
She took Judith off somewhere after lunch, and left Pamela with Horsham. This was not to Pamela's liking, but she soon discovered that it was to his. She did not pay much attention to his conversation, feeling a trifle drowsy after the half glass of Moselle which Lord Crowborough had insisted upon her drinking, until she woke up to the fact that he was endeavouring in a tentative and rather clumsy way to make love to her. She was inclined to be flattered, because she had now made up her mind that he liked Judith better than he liked her, though he might not be fully aware of it yet himself. But she did not want to be made love to for the moment, however tentatively. It was too hot, for one thing, and even half a glass of Moselle induces a disinclination to mental effort when your preference in fluids is for plain water.
She staved off the pressure for a time by asking him exactly how far he thought it was from Hayslope to Pershore, and expressing doubt at his answer. If she had thought of it she would have asked him to fetch a map, and he would have done so willingly and proved that he was right. But he ended that discussion by saying: "Whatever the distance is, I wish it was less. Then I should see you oftener."
This was no longer tentative, though it might be lacking in finesse. It was too much trouble to fence with it, only to have it pressed home. "Oh, my dear old Jim," she said, "I don't want you to say that sort of thing. Let's talk sensibly, if we must talk. But to tell you the truth, I feel rather sleepy. Couldn't we both drop off for a few minutes? These chairs are very comfortable."
Horsham was sitting up in his. They were on a terrace edged with a battlemented wall, from which there was a fine spreading view of the country that this ancient castle had once dominated. Men at arms had paced up and down the flags upon which the wicker chairs and tables were now so invitingly displayed, and if a fair lady had ever been wooed there by the inheritor of all the power and wealth that had been represented by Pershore Castle, it would have been in very different terms from those now being used by his descendant.
Nevertheless, Lord Horsham possessed, in addition to his quite modern tastes, habits and appearance, some sense, not to be confounded with vanity, of the dignities he had inherited, or would inherit, and a certain direct simplicity of purpose such as had probably had a good deal to do with advancing his ancestors to the summit of their desires. He passed over completely Pamela's very modern expression of humour, and said: "I hadn't thought of saying anything to you now because it's just a chance that we are here alone, and I don't know how much time there'll be. But there's no sense in keeping back what's there, and I know my own mind by this time. It's quite simple. You're the only girl I've ever seen that I should like to marry—I don't mean yet; but is there any chance of it?"
This had been said, not altogether without intimations of nervousness, but with a weight that forbade the response of raillery. Pamela corrected herself, and replied: "I'm afraid not, Jim. I like you very much indeed. I always have and I always shall; but I don't want to marry you."
"I suppose you mean that you don't love me."
"Well—I suppose I do; at least not in that way."
"I didn't think you did, you know," he said, not showing nervousness now. "But don't you think it would come? I don't know much about how these things work, because I've never gone about trying to fall in love, as some fellows seem to do. But I did read in a book somewhere that women often fell in love with men after they were married, though men didn't."