"You feel like that about it?"
"Well—we can't break the engagement at once. It would be perfectly awful for both of us—especially me. People would say I was only waiting for you to go to France to—to rot."
"You funny little soul! Pam—I—I blame myself for all this. You seem only a kid to me—until you sing."
"And then?" The golden mist seemed to dance towards me.
"And then I know you are a woman—with all a woman's rotten wiles, the little feline habit of plucking at a chap's heart-strings in order to amuse yourself. There's only one good woman in the world—my mother."
"I—I had no idea you had a mother!"
"Why should you have?" he demanded curtly. "She is a great invalid, she lives at Cromer Court near Totnes, in Devon."
"Does she know about—us?"
"She knows nothing," he said briefly. "There is nothing for her to know. My God! look!"
I looked. We had walked down to the sea, near Brennon House bathing-tents. The Gilpins had built a little diving platform, and on it, her hands above her head, stood Grace Gilpin.