“I don’t see what more I can be expected to do,” Pamela returned, a little nettled. “She is shy—I think of you. When we are alone she is more companionable.”
“Well, I’m going in for a whisky,” he said. “Dull people always give me a thirst.”
He went inside. Miss Maitland was mounting the stairs as he crossed the hall. He paused at the foot of the stairs and looked after her.
“Good-night,—mouse,” he called softly.
She looked back over her shoulder and flushed warmly.
“Good-night,” she answered, and gave him one of her rare smiles, and hurried on.
He entered the dining-room, drank off a glass of whisky, and poured himself out a second, which he carried with him on to the stoep and placed in the armhole of his chair. He had quite recovered his good humour. He smiled a trifle self-consciously, and leaned over the back of Pamela’s chair, and rallied her on her silence.
“Am I to sit through the rest of the evening with another speechless young woman?” he inquired.
Pamela, who felt unaccountably depressed, made no direct reply to this. Instead she observed:
“Blanche plays wonderfully. Would it bore you if I suggested a little music occasionally? I think she would enjoy it, and it would relieve the strain.”