"I can't get over it!" sobbed Lottie Prynne. "I always liked Belhaven—it's—it's dreadful. I should think we'd had thirteen at table."
Paul looked at her, exasperated; he was not sure, after all, that he admired her. Pamela showed sense at a crisis, he recognized, with a thrill of pride; Pamela really was a trump.
"Lord, it's awful to see a man go like that so suddenly!" was all he said, however.
Pamela rose. "See here, Paul," she said decisively, "you've got to take me in town somehow; we're just in the way here."
Paul demurred. "My dear, do you think?" he paused meaningly.
"Yes, I do! Rachel's a woman. I don't care a pin for your horrid stories; if she didn't love him she feels dreadfully. Any one can see that, poor dear! I don't believe Eva remembered anything; she just collapsed; but there's nothing to do now but get out of the way and come back to-morrow when one can be useful. You know we must be a nuisance here with all this happening!"
Paul surrendered. "You're right, but it's as cold as the devil and they've only just got the snow-plough through."
"I don't care," said Pamela stoutly. "Lottie, stop crying; it makes your nose red, dear, and I'm so nervous I just can't bear it."
Paul came back with his own coat and Pamela's wrap. "I say, they've actually got a motor out and it's waiting. I thought perhaps you'd better go on in it to our house, Mrs. Prynne, with Pamela; it's nearly morning—"
Lottie's face cleared. "I'll go straight home if you'll take me," she said, "and be only too thankful to go. I'm all upset!"