Gainah struggled up from the sofa. She looked at Jethro. She moved her dry pale lips, and moved her oddly-dressed brown head too. She wanted to speak to him--to implore, to insist. But the words strangled in her throat at the sight of his exultant face and shining eyes. It was useless for age to pit itself against youth. Her time was past. She knew, although it was gall to admit it, that the girl she hated had Nature on her side. All her comparisons were drawn from Nature; her untiring energy of pickle and preserve making had gone hand-in-hand with Nature. Didn’t the old potatoes rot off to make room for the new? Wasn’t it natural? Her feet moved slowly over the carpet. It had been her choice nearly thirty-five years before. But it was hardly worn; they rarely used the keeping-room. She went into the garden. She looked at the brown stalks of the summer’s annuals in her borders. They were dead, dry--only fit for the waste-heap. Yet their young seedlings were green and vigorous. It was all so simple, so natural. Yet--yet! She was far too practical, too mentally sluggish, to put the half-formed thought into clear shape. They were only fit for the waste-heap--but did they want to go there? Wasn’t there some dumb, desperate struggle against extinction going on between those brown, sadly swaying stalks? Then she saw a wagonette pull up at the white gate, saw a head of rich red hair between the poplars, and hurried indoors to put on her black silk gown. CHAPTER V. PAMELA saw the wagonette, too, as she perched on the chair, her head level with the high window. She was so surprised and fluttered that the Oriental bowl she was lifting down nearly dropped from her fingers. She called through the open door to Jethro: “Here’s a carriage at the gate. Inside, an elderly lady and a girl with red hair. They are coming up the path.” “Aunt Sophy--Mrs. Turle, of Turle House--and Nancy.” “They have come to call on me.” She gave a soft breath of satisfaction as she jumped from the chair; her best gown, her waved hair, were justified. She had only just time to add, “What a pity I hadn’t finished the china closet!” before they were announced, in rustic, familiar fashion, by the red-armed housemaid, who hadn’t yet changed her cotton gown for her afternoon stuff one. Mrs. Turle was a big woman with a stately carriage. Nancy was slim, and either shy or stupid. She had a very white skin--the Turle skin, as Jethro had said. Whenever she spoke or was spoken to, a silly pink flooded her face. Her dress was precise and perfect in detail; the very best that the best shop in Liddleshorn could supply. Mrs. Turle, too, wore a stiff silk, and the set of golden sable which had been part of her wedding outfit, and was only just beginning to look damaged by moth. This was evidently a state call. Pamela saw her look swiftly round the room, as she threw back her net veil with the deep hem.