The air through the open window--she had opened it herself only a minute ago, before the world changed--was warm. The full red heads of the geraniums nodded heavily with occasional puffs of vigorous March wind. It was a warm, noisy world. The beseeching, persistent bleat of the little new lambs rung like a mournful bell with every second, and through it filtered the confused song of every madly happy bird that had mated and built a nest. She put out her hand again for the bell, calling herself a fanciful, nervous fool. As she gripped the handle she heard the voice again--persuasive, winning. Hadn’t she often heard it like that? It said: “You can have one by very easy payments.” The bell fell on the table, rolled off, and clanged its noisy tongue as it touched the oak floor. The pretty, ruddy housemaid came in, looked flurried. She left the kitchen door wide behind her, and Pamela saw the well-scrubbed table, the gleaming brass preserving-pan on top of an oak corner cupboard in which candles, soaps, and so on were stored. She could, with the tail of her eye, see the back door leading to the flagged yard, and she seemed to feel that he was standing there. Certainly someone was there, because the sheep dog, who was so savage on the chain, barked angrily. “I want my bicycle,” she said as calmly as she could, “and, Nettie, who is that at the back door?” “A piker--I beg pardon, miss--a tramp. Yet not just a piker; he never begged. But he wants me and Cook to buy a sewing-machine, paying it off by little bits each month.” “I shouldn’t like the noise of a sewing-machine in the kitchen.” “Then I’ll tell him to go away.” “Nettie.” “Yes, miss.” “I was just going to say that--I forget. I remember--you need not speak to Daborn about the bicycle for a few moments. I’ll go into the garden and find him myself.” “Very well, miss.” The buxom figure of the country girl in her deep pink gown went round the half-opened door. Pamela sat, her head against the wall, a sound like the thudding, throbbing noise of an engine-room in her head and at her waist. Suddenly she stretched out her hand and rang the bell again. The housemaid came round the door for the second time, looking a little surprised. “Has he gone?” “No, miss. Cook’s going to have a machine--not to work here, miss. She’s to be married next club day.” “I should like to see him. Perhaps the machines are good and cheap. Tell him to step through.” The pink figure disappeared again and she waited--sick, expectant, dreading; disgusted with herself for the half delight which she felt, a delight which nearly swamped the fear. He came through the door and they shut it after him. There was no mistake. Her ears had not played her false. Directly he saw her sitting there, beneath the row of black-framed prints, beside the shining brown table which held the great bowl of blue, he gave a start, a whistle of astonishment, and said under his breath: “Pam!”