"Who is she, then?"
"Goodness knows," exclaimed Pamela, "but she's, well--she thinks a most awful lot of herself. Whether her opinion is justified I suppose her friends know best. I know nothing at all, yet."
"Does she want you to do something, then?"
"My dear Midget, she doesn't ask. She coolly orders me to meet her at 8.30 to-morrow--she writes 'to-morrow' and never says whether it's morning or evening--to begin with, that's idiotic! And why does she throw it into your window, I'd like to know? She must be raving mad, prowling about our house at--what time is it--eleven o'clock. It simply isn't decent."
Pamela was both annoyed and startled, at the same time she was intrigued, and a tiny bit flattered. This surprising stranger, who bore a very distinguished stamp on her personality, had picked out her--Pamela--as an acquaintance, not Christobel! Well, it was odd; she read the note again, and looked at the dusty little pebbles in the envelope.
"She put those in to weight the letter, of course--but why your window?"
"She meant it for yours," suggested Hughie.
"Hum--how did she know these two rooms were yours and mine?" Then a light broke on Pamela's mind. "I know, Midget--she's been pumping Mrs. Trewby and Baker--I mean Mrs. Chipman, and they've told her things. Both of them know how we live and what we do with ourselves. She wasn't sure quite which window, so she chucked it into the first one, which happens to be yours. I say though, it's awful cheek! Fancy if anybody saw her."
"Fancy if Addie and Crow were on the yawl and saw her in the garden--I say," Hughie chuckled, "they'd say it was you, Pam--they'd be certain this time."
Pamela lay back on her pillow and frowned.