The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt--there is no
other way of expressing it--in great quantities and with infinite
humility.
My admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw him walk six
yards behind her for the length of the terrace: not a look nor a
turn of her head gave him leave to join her. Miss Liston
had gone upstairs, and I watched the scene from the window of the
smoking room. At last, at the end of the long walk, just where
the laurel-bushes mark the beginning of the shrubberies--on the
threshold of the scene of his crime--Pamela turned round suddenly
and faced the repentant sinner. The most interesting things in
life are those which, perhaps by the inevitable nature of the
case, one does not hear; and I did not hear the scene which
followed. For a while they stood talking--rather, he talked and
she listened. Then she turned again and walked slowly into the
shrubbery. Chillington followed. It was the end of a chapter,
and I laid down the book.
How and from whom Miss Liston heard the news which Chillington
himself told me, without a glimmer of shame or a touch of
embarrassment, some two hours later, I do not know; but hear it
she did before luncheon; for she came down, ready armed with
the neatest little speeches for both the happy lovers.
I did not expect Pamela to show an ounce more feeling than the
strictest canons of propriety demanded, and she fulfilled my
expectations to the letter; but I had hoped, I confess, that
Chillington would have displayed some little consciousness.
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