She went back to the parlor. It struck a gray note after the stream of hopeful sun in the corridor. The yew--impenetrable, glistening, green--blocked the latticed window; logs on the yawning brick hearth had broken in the middle amid a wreck of wood-ash. She dropped on her knees and began to ply the bellows. Presently the smoke and flames curled blue and yellow round the wood, and reflected on her face, remorselessly showing the careworn line of her mouth and the hopeless droop of her lids. Edred had taken a piece of paper from his pocket and was drawing a pretended plan of something--it didn’t matter what--lies, of course--and he was talking glibly of the different parts of a ship and the habits of the natives off the coast of West Africa. Her hands moved softly on the bellows, and the gentle plaintive “shoo-shoo” as they puffed made a sad accompaniment to that high-pitched, eager voice and the occasional slow, mellow note of Jethro’s. He was talking in his innocence of his mother’s brother. He spoke of the other uncle--Thomas--who had also been a sailor. He said that a love of the sea was evidently in the Crisp blood. And then he added heartily that he hoped Edred would make a long stay; the place was large enough and there was always a home for kindred. Pamela said nothing. She looked round fitfully from time to time. She blew the bellows more vigorously, with a fancy that the ruddy light should fall on those two faces near the table--one big and ruddy and restful, the other dark, sallow, full of a guilty, eager brilliance. She could hardly breathe. Her heart was playing her such mad pranks. At one moment she could feel nothing but the most lawless, unrestrained delight at Edred’s return to her--in any circumstance. At the next she felt a profound pity for her own extraordinary position and the sudden sinister twirl of her fortunes. On Jethro she bestowed only one emotion, and that--mild contempt. The queer feminine twist--small regard for the man who blindly loves and is gulled--was strong in her. She had illogically looked to him to get her out of her difficulty. He was, in his ignorance, making things harder; he was placidly wrecking his own life. He loved her. She would have made him a good wife; she had a very grateful regard for him. If only she had gone to Turle ten minutes before! If she had been quicker in changing her gown! If, if, if! The little word, which sometimes means so much more than the very biggest in the language, chimed in her racked head.