“That was very good of you, and very effectual,” said Sir Harry. “But it’s only what one would have expected. No decent man would care to employ a fellow so very shady, if he knew of it.”
“Of course not.”
“Least of all a man like Mr. Candover.”
And Sir Harry cast at Pamela a glance which showed how bright a halo he threw round everything and every one belonging to her.
Pamela, meanwhile, had grown serious and anxious to be able to speak to her hostess. Sir Harry noted this, and said: “Miss Candover wants to speak to you, Madame. Now I hope you won’t send me away; I’ve been manœuvring to get asked to tea. Shall I go out into the garden and feed the rabbits—if there are any rabbits—while she pours out her heart to you?”
Pamela turned to him gratefully. “Would you—would you really?” she said, with pretty gratitude. “I do want to speak to Madame, but I don’t want to drive you away.”
Audrey, whose spirits rose in the presence of these two bright, good-looking, sympathetic young people, nodded a smiling dismissal to Sir Harry, who promptly took himself off into the garden, and made elaborate pretences of plucking handfuls of grass to feed imaginary animals while the ladies talked.
Pamela seized Audrey by the arm, and made her sit beside her on a couch while she poured into her ear a rather disquieting tale.
“There’s been a woman,” she said, “a wild-looking, uncanny woman, not quite in her right mind, I think, calling at Miss Willett’s, and asking to see us. She says she’s our mother, but we know that our mother is dead. We don’t quite like to write to my father about it, because he doesn’t like to be told annoying things. So I thought I’d run over and see you, and ask you what we’d better do.”
Audrey was troubled. There were these vague clouds of distress and mystery in every direction, she thought. How was it? “What does Miss Willett think?” she asked.