“Yes. We must go. Good-by, Mrs. Hone; good-day, Mr. Hone. I’ll take the tray under my arm. Oh, don’t you bother about paper.” They went down the uneven path with the stiff lines of snowy flowers. “Poor old soul!” said Pamela, when they reached the road. “Did she take you in with what she so eloquently calls her ‘poor, empty belly’? I left off being sentimental long ago. Mrs. Hone has a fat account in the post-office savings bank. I know that for a fact.” “Shall we hurry a little? I hate to keep Aunt Sophy waiting, or to vex her. She didn’t like your remark about being hanged.” “Of course she didn’t. Wasn’t it fun to see them petrify? No doubt they’ve been discussing me; saying what bad taste it was to set up a gallows-tree at a garden party. I give them endless topics for conversation. They don’t believe me even when I do tell the truth. There was a comic song Tim used to sing, ‘The only time I told the truth she said I was a liar.’ That is just my position. I tell the unvarnished truth: that my husband is a journalist traveling in search of sensation. They don’t believe me. If he were doing time at Portland and I said he was stalking big game, my social popularity would rival Mrs. McAlpine’s. Here’s your brother Edred coming across the meadow to look for us. He’s a very handsome man; not a bit like you. He reminds me of some splendid snake. Do you understand? As his sister, you won’t. You’ll only be shocked; there is a strong streak of the local prudery and orthodoxy about you, Pamela. I could go to destruction with a man of that type--hating him and myself all the time.” CHAPTER X. JETHRO was hoeing peas in the burning June sun. His white linen hat flapped over his calm, shrewd eyes. Pamela, loitering along the grass paths, marveled intolerantly at his choice of an occupation. Why should a man of substance, a man of birth, a man with acres and with laborers, hoe peas? She paced the paths thoughtfully, looking at her neat, broad border of new roses, taking up a fluttering label now and then to read the half-obliterated name. They were all the very latest and choicest roses, and had been planted in the spring by the nurseryman at Liddleshorn, to whom she had given a large order. Her heart told her that Edred was close behind, and she turned, her eyes seeking his humbly, pleading for tender recognition. He did not trouble to look at her, but merely plucked one of her beautiful pink Verdier roses without permission, and stuck it in his coat, with a scornful laugh at its huge size.