There were steady steps outside. Someone was coming round the house, brushing the wall across which the vine spread its stout arms. She knew the step. She knew the melodious whistle. It was Jethro. She pictured him coming in his leisurely way round to the garden door, little dreaming; his hands stuck in the pockets of his shooting breeches, his cap a little tilted over his eyes to keep the hard March sun out. She sprang to her feet. The man sprang up too. He had heard the steps before she heard them. His life had been one that lent itself to stealth and minute caution. He knew that the next moment would decide her, and consequently would decide his fate. He had no claim on her--she might turn him adrift if she chose, as he had reminded her. And he much preferred to stay. Lucky accident had brought him here. Selling sewing-machines by easy payments at the back door was not a life to his taste. The steady, leisurely steps grew more distinct. The two--desperate girl and desperate man--were close, eye to eye. With a fleet movement he folded his arms about her and kissed her for the second time on the mouth. She whispered fiercely, as soon as she got her breath: “When I came--that first day--he asked me if I had brothers or sisters. I thought of you--you were never out of my head. Something, someone--God or the devil--made me say I had a brother, a sailor on a long voyage. You understand?” “Perfectly.” He nodded his head approvingly. “Now sit down, darling, and leave off trembling.” The long, broad shadow of a man fell across the floor from the open door to the plinth of the tall clock. It stopped on the threshold. Pamela’s feet, which had turned numb and cold, were set fast. She tried to get up unconcernedly, but could only grip her hands round the curved arms of the rush-seated chair of golden beechwood. The last remnant of a struggle was fighting itself out within her. Should she stand up and say: “I knew this man once. He boarded at the house where I was an assistant. He made love to me. I was flattered and I responded--but that was nothing. It was all over long ago. Send him away and let us be happy together as we have settled to be.” Should she say that? Should she tell the bald, mean, ugly truth? They were both looking at her--these two men who between them held the strings of her future. Jethro’s light eyes were a bit cold and hard. He was suspicious, like all simple men. She said, putting one hand stiffly toward the companion beechwood chair: “This is my brother----” She broke off, a nervous dread sealing her lips. She had nearly said “my brother Edred,” and then she could not remember whether, at that first interview in the big bay window, she had given him a name.