Mother is getting a trifle impatient. She twitters about weddings sometimes, and comes and sits on my bed and shows me pictures of bridal gowns from sixpenny illustrated weeklies. Poor mother! it's going to be a bitter blow. Sometimes I feel a little criminal about it. I read a book the other day in which the heroine finds herself in "a ridiculous position, unbelievable and unsurpassed in fiction"—I laughed until I cried. She had only got to use a pennyworth of honesty and a pinch of common sense to get out of her position; I am wedged tight in mine.
Fantastic problems often demand fantastic solutions.
Meanwhile, winter is coming on, frost is crisping the leaves, this morning the dahlias in our little garden were black and sodden.
Later the same day.
I have found the solution—and it is even more fantastic than I had dreamed of.
I know that Mrs. Gilpin, Grace, young Wontner, Cheneston, and one or two other men who were at Gilpin's to-night, think I am in love with Walter Markham in Mesopotamia and he with me—in spite of the fact that I was engaged to Cheneston when he went out.
I saw the Way Out for Cheneston quite suddenly, and grabbed it before it was too late.
I am sure that to-morrow Cheneston will come to me and ask me outright if I love Markham, and then he will release me—— Oh, I don't know what will happen! There will be a horrible row with mother, and I am sure Grace will marry Cheneston before he goes out.
They were all talking about Markham, and saying how weird it was that no one had heard a single word since he left England.
"He's not the sort of man to drop his friends, either," Mrs. Gilpin said; then she turned to me, laughing. "Come now, Pam, you were in his confidence—haven't you heard?"