“I was always fond of you,” she said, going back to the foot of the bed. “I always suspected you of drama. I’ve a plan. You must stay here--it will be a charity to me. When Tim comes home--we’ll see! I shan’t want you then.” She made a little frank grimace. “When Tim comes home I want no one--until the first rapture of reunion wears off. We are like a couple of very juvenile lovers--but we don’t keep up the strain for long. He won’t return for a couple of months at the very least. We can have a splendid time, you and I together. There is only one thing I must insist on--one thing.” The disgustful expression of the night before momentarily hardened her laughing face. “You must vow, by something solemn--what binding instrument can we get for you to kiss or swear by? There is really nothing but a back glass--which is frivolous--and a poker, which is threatening. Give me your bare word. Promise not to attempt to see that man; not to degrade me by going back, by writing. You mustn’t even speak of him. It’s all terrible tragedy to you; to me it is merely a disgraceful, unavoidable episode. The woman in brown transforms the situation. I’m more sorry for her than for you; we can’t help our respectable prejudices. He is never to be mentioned. We’ll put away, if you please, the very tea-gown which he has touched. I’ve brought you a coat and skirt--a pale blue skirt which ought to suit you beautifully. Is it all settled?” “All!” Pamela returned with promptitude. “I vow. I am only too grateful to be saved--from myself.” In that quick way--natural to Barbara Clutton--they decided it. Pamela fell obediently into the life at Beaufort Street. It was almost conventual. Day after day she rose from her bed, looked at the mourning band of river and despaired. She was cut off from London; it was part of the compact that she was not to go beyond the Chelsea end of Sloane Street. She shopped in King’s Road. Sometimes she walked out to Fulham, or penetrated farther still, to a lonely green, belted with red and yellow houses. The omnibuses pulled up there. She used to stare at them wistfully, and think of Wormwood Scrubbs and the old, dead days of anguish. Furtively she bought newspapers and read them with a hungry eye. She read everything which might hold a trail of Edred. She bought City papers, made her head ache by puzzling over market quotations. She read accounts of frauds, read all the criminal news. She read the lists of bankrupts, read death notices, advertisements. She never saw his name. It seemed suddenly sponged from all the places which had formerly placarded it. She beat against the bars of that house by the river. She wasn’t happy; neither she nor Barbara was happy after the first glow of novelty wore off. They weren’t of the mold to be completely satisfied with the companionship of their own sex.