“Yes, miss.”
“I was just going to say that—I forget. I remember—you need not speak to Daborn about the bicycle for a few moments. I’ll go into the garden and find him myself.”
“Very well, miss.”
The buxom figure of the country girl in her deep pink gown went round the half-opened door. Pamela sat, her head against the wall, a sound like the thudding, throbbing noise of an engine-room in her head and at her waist. Suddenly she stretched out her hand and rang the bell again. The housemaid came round the door for the second time, looking a little surprised.
“No, miss. Cook’s going to have a machine—not to work here, miss. She’s to be married next club day.”
“I should like to see him. Perhaps the machines are good and cheap. Tell him to step through.”
The pink figure disappeared again and she waited—sick, expectant, dreading; disgusted with herself for the half delight which she felt, a delight which nearly swamped the fear.
He came through the door and they shut it after him. There was no mistake. Her ears had not played her false. Directly he saw her sitting there, beneath the row of black-framed prints, beside the shining brown table which held the great bowl of blue, he gave a start, a whistle of astonishment, and said under his breath:
“Pam!”