Beryl shook her head. "No, no," she sobbed. "I—I'll be all right—in a—in a minute. Wait a minute."
Pamela waited patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm round Beryl's shoulders. "Poor old girl," she said once.
Presently Beryl became calmer, and began to murmur apologetically,
"It's so silly of me. I'm so sorry if I gave you a start—I didn't hear you come in—I thought I'd locked the door—and I couldn't help crying again when I saw you—I was all worked up so. Please forgive me—being so silly—only—only I was so miserable." And here the tears began afresh.
"Don't, Beryl, you'll make yourself ill if you cry like that. I wish I could help you— What is it? Won't you tell me? Do trust me, if it's anything I can help you in—I would be so glad to help you. Do tell me what it is," urged Pamela.
For a moment Beryl felt inclined to prevaricate, and say that she was merely overtired, or depressed, and so account for the fit of crying; but the longing to share her troubles with some one—and that some one the most sympathetic person she knew at present—conquered her usual reticence. She feared losing Pamela's respect, and yet she felt as if Pamela would somehow understand her.
"Is it that you're longing to go home?" asked Pamela kindly, quite unprepared for the emphasis with which Beryl replied:
"Oh, no."
"I believe I know," said Pamela, remembering one or two occasions recently in which Isobel figured as the cause of discomfiture to Beryl. "Some one has been bothering you about things that don't concern them in the least.... I shouldn't mind about that if I were you."
"You must think it silly of me—I wish I didn't care—and I don't really," Beryl explained in a confused way. "I care much more what you think about me than I do what Isobel thinks about me. It's what I do, when she keeps questioning me, that upsets me." Beryl paused, and rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then said suddenly, "When she bothers me with questions I—it makes me tell lies! ... And, oh, Pamela," she sobbed, "I do hate myself for doing it." She went on to explain more fully, pausing every now and again to dab her eyes, or blow her nose, or cry a little bit more; and Pamela, piecing the broken sentences together, began to understand what had been taking place.