I had tried to be subtle and I had achieved blatancy.
I'm more schoolgirl than woman of the world; sometimes I get so mad with myself I wish I could be another person, and meet myself out, and be fearfully subtle and humiliating.
All the morning I was strung up to concert pitch waiting for things to happen, and nothing happened. I had a feeling that the end of my little interlude with Cheneston was nearly over. I tried so hard to be philosophic about it.
We were going for the last picnic of the season with the Gilpins and Morrisons. We were going to motor out to the White Woman's Cave and have lunch there. Cheneston was coming too; the new battery was not in camp yet, and he was at a loose end. Several of the officers had been invited, and I had looked forward to it.
"You'll wear your lemon linen coat and skirt and your big black sailor, won't you, Pam?" mother said, wandering into my room as I was changing. "Dear, dear! how ragged the garden looks! Winter will soon be here, and then we shall have to see about coats and skirts and things for you. Pam, there isn't any hitch, is there?"
I slipped on my exquisitely cut linen jacket.
"Hitch?" I repeated.
"You've not been doing anything stupid—because, remember, your father and I have had considerable expense in——"
"What have you heard?" I said hardily.
"That you had a certain friendliness for Walter Markham, and that, although no one else has had the honour of being reminded of his existence, you have been hearing from him."