'She wouldn't sign that codicil thing--she made father climb down about the gates--and Sir Henry says she's begun to pull the estate together like anything, and if father will only let her alone for a year or two she'll make him a rich man.' 'Oh, I know,' said Pamela gloomily, 'she's paid most of the bills already.

When I go into Fallerton now--everybody--all the tradesmen are as sweet as sugar.' 'Well, that's something to the good, isn't it?
Don't be unfair!' 'I'm not unfair!' cried Pamela.

'Don't you see how she just swallows up everybody's attention--how nobody else matters when she's there! How, can you expect _me_ to like that--if she were an archangel--which she isn't!' 'But has she done anything nasty--anything to bother you ?' 'Well, of course, I'm just a cypher when she's there.

I'm afraid I oughtn't to mind--but I do!' And Pamela, with her hands round her knees, stared into the fire in bitterness of spirit.

She couldn't explain, even to Desmond, that the inward eye all the time was tormented by two kindred visions--Arthur in the hall that afternoon, talking war work with Elizabeth with such warm and eager deference, and Arthur on Holme Hill, stretched at Elizabeth's feet, and bandying classical chaff with her.