"I think it's cold," said Pamela, in her cool, quiet tones. "And it's also, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. I shall go to bed." I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to attribute the "slowness" (which had undoubtedly existed) to me, so I took my revenge by saying with an assumption of innocence purposely and obviously unreal: "Oh, but won't you wait and bid Miss Liston and Chillington goodnight?" Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made bold to smile. Pamela's face broke slowly into an answering smile. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wynne," said she. "No?" said I. "No," said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went she looked over her shoulder, and still smiling, said, "Wish Miss Liston good-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to Sir Gilbert will wait very well till to-morrow." She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came out of the shrubbery and rejoined me. Chillington wore his usual passive look, but Miss Liston's face was happy and radiant. Chillington passed on into the drawing room. Miss Liston lingered a moment by me. "Why, you look," said I, "as if you'd invented the finest scene ever written." She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the stars. Then she said, in a dreamy tone: "I think I shall stick to my old idea in the book." As she spoke, Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw a frown on his face. "I say, Wynne," said he, "where's Miss Myles?" "She's gone to bed," I answered. "She told me to wish you good night for her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington." Miss Liston's eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he stood frowning for an instant, then, with some muttered ejaculation, he strode back into the house. We heard his heavy tread across the drawing room; we heard the door slammed behind him, and I found myself looking on Miss Liston's altered face. "What does he want her for, I wonder!" she said, in an agitation that made my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to her. "He said nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-night." And she walked slowly into the house, her eyes on the ground, and all the light gone from her face, and the joy dead in it. Whereupon I, left alone, began to rail at the gods that a dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston should bother her poor, silly little head about a hulking fool; in which reflections I did, of course, immense injustice not only to an eminent author, but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat dense and decidedly conceited, gentleman. The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt--there is no other way of expressing it--in great quantities and with infinite humility.