"Oh, none of the others have been anything—just fancies—boyish fancies, you know."
He laughed gaily. He was very good to look at, with his close-cropped shapely head thrown back on the firm column of his neck. Pam smiled up at him again, with a sort of proprietary fondness. She admired him, as she had always admired him ever since she could remember, and had never met a young man whom she thought his equal. And it was a source of pride to her that he was one of her own family—to all intents and purposes a brother. Poor Hugo, over whose death she had cried, as something strange and unexpected and infinitely pathetic, had been a kind brother to her—she liked to remember that the last time she had said good-bye to him, never to see him again, he had given her ten pounds to spend as she liked—but he had never made a confidante of her, as Norman had always done. She had known very little of Hugo's life as it was spent away from Hayslope, but she thought she knew all about Norman's life. He had fallen in love once or twice, and had always told her everything about it. Hugo seemed to have gone through life without falling in love. Poor Hugo! She could not but believe, from her intimate talks with Norman, that he had died without acquiring the crown of his manhood. Norman was attractive under the influence of his love affairs, and she was not surprised that he had them continually, though she saw quite plainly that without some such guidance as she was fortunately able to give him he might have got into trouble with them. Men were so foolish where girls were concerned. Even the best of them, who had a lot to give—like Norman—fell in love with girls who were in no way their equals. But it never did to tell them so. Give them all sympathy and affection, and the affair died away of itself. So it had been three times with Norman already, and Pamela, who had been a little alarmed over the first affair, was confirmed in the belief that she had dealt most wisely with each situation as it had arisen. Still, the genuine lasting emotion must come into play sooner or later. There must be, somewhere, a girl who was worthy of such a rare prize as Norman's love, and Pamela had always told herself that when that girl was found she would welcome her whole-heartedly.
"Yes, you've been in love with love," she said impressively; and they both laughed, for this was a quotation.
"Trying my wings," said Norman. "They were all dears, but there wasn't enough to them when it came down to the things one is interested in."
"Well, now I'm free to speak," said Pamela, "I'll confess that they seemed to me a set of brainless idiots. I hope the new one has got some intelligence. It would be such an advantage if you had to spend your life with her. She's pretty, of course. Have you got a photograph of her?"
"Not a proper one. I'm not up to that point yet."
"Worshipping at a distance?"
"No, not exactly. We've danced together a lot in London, and been the greatest pals. Really, I've been rather clever about it. She's very young—only in her first season. She's out to have a jolly good time, but her life isn't only amusement. She's slogging hard at the piano. She'd like to be a pro, but of course her people won't let her."
"Why not?"