All was not over yet. That evening Chillington broke away. Led
by vanity, or interest, or friendliness, I know not which--tired
may be of paying court (the attitude in which Pamela kept him),
and thinking it would be pleasant to play the other part for a
while--after dinner he went straight to Miss Liston, talked to
her while we had coffee on the terrace, and then walked about
with her. Pamela sat by me; she was very silent; she did not
appear to be angry, but her handsome mouth wore a resolute
expression. Chillington and Miss Liston wandered on into the
shrubbery, and did not come into sight again for nearly half an
hour.
"I think it's cold," said Pamela, in her cool, quiet tones. "And
it's also, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. I shall go to bed."
I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to attribute the
"slowness" (which had undoubtedly existed) to me, so I took
my revenge by saying with an assumption of innocence purposely
and obviously unreal:
"Oh, but won't you wait and bid Miss Liston and Chillington
goodnight?"
Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made bold to smile.
Pamela's face broke slowly into an answering smile.
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wynne," said she.
"No?" said I.
"No," said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went she
looked over her shoulder, and still smiling, said, "Wish Miss
Liston good-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to
Sir Gilbert will wait very well till to-morrow.
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