Jethro, after a few awkward words--he never excelled in the presence of women--went back to his stubble and his dog. Pamela was left alone with these two--evidently bent on criticism--who might or might not be of her blood. Mrs. Turle said, looking at her steadfastly: “My dear, you are like Jethro’s mother. She died when he was born, you know. Always weak here.” She laid her plump hand on the sable that crossed her ample bosom. “I hope your chest is not weak. You don’t look very strong.” “I am quite strong, thank you,” the new cousin returned rather awkwardly, conscious that Nancy was trying to puzzle out the construction of her _coiffure_. “You may think so”--Mrs. Turle dealt out the sweet, maternal smile for which she was famous,--“but one can never be sure of one’s own constitution. I must send you down a large bottle of the cough syrup I make for Nancy every autumn.” She kept looking round the room. Pamela felt sure that she resented everything--the tablecloth with storks, the winking brass bowls, the very petticoat, which her portly shoulders crushed. “I should have called before,” she continued apologetically, “but I couldn’t have the horse. We only keep one since Mr. Turle died, and my man, Evergreen, like all old servants, must be indulged. He doesn’t care to drive in bad weather, and we have had so many mists lately. Besides”--there was a tinge of reproach in her purring voice--“I hadn’t seen you at church. I didn’t know if you were ready for callers.” “Church! Oh, I haven’t been yet. It seemed such a pity to waste half a beautiful day indoors,” said Pamela innocently. She saw timid Nancy glance at her mother and smile. They were very tepid people. She already felt as if little cascades of lukewarm water played on her. “In London,” she added, in extenuation, “so few people go to church.” Mrs. Turle looked grave. “I must say,” she said softly--and Pamela soon learnt that “I must say” was her favorite formula--“that people in towns are very lax. You can’t bring up a large family--I’ve had fifteen--without method. When my children were little they went to church twice on Sunday--what else could you do with boys? They would only loaf about. Next Sunday, dear, Nancy and I will call for you. We always drive.” “Thank you very much.” “And you have always lived in London? Your mother and father are dead, so Jethro told us. I knew your father. He was a very handsome young man. I must say,” her scintillating eyes were full on the girl’s face, “that I should never have known you for his daughter. There is no resemblance; poor John had such regular features.” Pamela looked a little awkward. Nancy said kindly in her weak, sweet voice, and with her languishing smile: “Do you ride a bicycle?” “No. I--I’ve never had the chance.” “Oh! you must get one. Mustn’t she, mamma? It is such fun. In the summer we have picnics, and in the winter paper chases.” “That would be nice.”