Thus at any rate he judged her quality, a quality greedy and common, that called itself self-surrendering. She was out for what she could get, and Colin had a certain sympathy with that, for it was sensible and intelligible. It had not, at any rate, anything in common with Violet’s love for him, which sought to give and not to get. That was wholly alien to him: its manifestations bored him, its spirit, just because it was so unintelligible to him, he hated and defied.... Pamela was not like that, nor again was she light, she did not think of this physical desire, which she called love, as a diversion. Had she offered him a part in a comedy, he might have accepted it: comedy was a pleasant pastime. But it was not that which she wanted: she was engaged, so he construed her, on nefarious designs against his liberty: and these must be met with counterplots, which would lead her on to some final debâcle. They paused a moment as she looked up at the house. The moon to-night had only just risen, tawny and large on the horizon. “Yes, I adore it,” he said. “It casts a spell on us all, you know. I would sooner be here than anywhere on this earth, but, as you know now, there are certain drawbacks to it.” “Drawbacks? Shew me some,” she said. “Ah, you’re too polite. Polite Pamela.... But imagine what dinner would have been like if it hadn’t been for you! Granny, Uncle Ronald, Aunt Margaret----” “My dear, you’ve left out Violet,” she said. “I think she’s too fascinating.” Colin saw that his counter-plot was positively opened by her. He put his arm through hers. “I feel sure you have seen,” he said, “and I’m sure you’re sympathetic. Give me a drop of pity, Pamela. That’ll be rather healing, and then we’ll be gay again.” “But pity? Why pity?” said she. Colin stopped. “Violet detests me,” he said. “Yes, I know you saw that, and naturally you couldn’t say it. But it’s said now. It’s sad, isn’t it? Just a little sad? It’s not her fault: any more than it’s my fault that I love her. And I suppose I shall get used to it. They say one gets used to anything. Wounds heal if you give them time. But, oh, how easily they’re torn open again! Look, here where we stand in the shadow of the yew-hedge is the very spot where Violet first kissed me: it was here she said she would marry me. Come away. I bleed.” He saw her eyes sparkle and soften. They sparkled first: that was the genuine symptom. Then they softened: that was womanly sympathy. Her arm just pressed his encircled hand, and that perhaps was both. All this he read so easily, with that adeptness derived from the birthright of his inheritance. No saint of God could find good in people with such dexterity as he could find evil. “My dear, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I hadn’t seen, more shame on my blindness. And really it never occurred to me that sorrow could come near you, for you always seem so robed in joy.”