“But——”
She broke off. The fire was warm and crackling, his voice so calm, she didn’t wish to disturb things. She recoiled from telling him the truth, she shrank from hearing it. For she was certain that he meant to marry. He had learnt to be indifferent to her—his kiss was an admission of that.
“We must have Gainah in.” He put his hand out again to that little knob on the wall. “She shall tell them to get the guest-room ready. You’d like to go upstairs?”
“Not yet. There is something I must tell you first. Perhaps you’ll turn me out—I don’t know. In any case you will wish me to go to-morrow morning; even if you were willing to let me stay, she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Gainah! She doesn’t rule me any longer,” he laughed. “Poor old Gainah! She’s old—and queer. Aunt Sophy is afraid she is breaking up. That would be awkward for me; a man can’t manage maids.”
“I didn’t mean Gainah. I meant Maria Furlonger. She is a good housekeeper. She’ll make a good mistress for Folly Corner. When you tell her the truth—and you must tell her—she’ll be indignant. There isn’t much mercy in Maria. But I congratulate you, Jethro.”
“You talk as if I meant to marry Maria.”
“And you don’t? Who is it, then?”
“I’m not going to marry at all,” he returned soberly. “You ought to know that, Pamela.”
“You are not going to marry!” she cried out in a shrill, happy, half-incredulous voice. “I am so glad. Barbara Clutton said you were. I thought you were doing up the place for your wife.”