“I wonder!” said Pamela.
He turned his head suddenly and looked her squarely in the eyes. The light from the stoep shone on her face and showed it very fair and pale and pure. She turned aside as though unwilling to bear his earnest scrutiny.
“One grows used to people,” she said. “Somehow, I have always felt at home with you. When you go away I have a feeling that you won’t come back. I had that feeling last time.”
“Yet here I am,” he said in a lighter tone.
“Yes,” she said. “I know. It’s stupid of me. I hate losing sight of friends. I have so few.”
“Few!” he echoed. “I expect if I had half the number I should reckon myself rich.”
“You don’t use the word in the sense I do,” she returned. “I meant the friends one can depend upon... who wouldn’t fail one under any circumstances.”
“I understand,” he said, and added quietly: “I am glad you place me in that category.”
“You head the list,” she answered with a faint smile. “I’m not quite sure your name doesn’t stand alone.”
While she was speaking the belief was suddenly confirmed in her that this man was entirely sincere in his protestations of friendship, that even if he heard the shameful story of her life with Arnott, he would not withdraw his friendship. She felt that she could rely on him, trust him implicitly. She also knew that if she needed help at any time he was the one person in the world she would ask for it. He was so sympathetic that she believed he would understand, as no one else without a similar experience could understand, her position. He, at least, would recognise that she had not acted solely from base motives.