It was Sir Marmaduke Shard. Alone. But he had not been alone when the car passed her the first time. Pamela stared after the receding car till it was lost in the dusk; then she went on again at her best pace, very much surprised, for it would really seem that the great Sir Marmaduke had actually brought someone to Bell Bay, left them behind somewhere, and gone back to Salterne. It really was exciting, because there was nowhere to come to except his own house, and had he been going there he would surely have chosen the direct road. Moreover, to leave again at once, like this! Pamela could find no answer to the riddle. When she reached home, nobody questioned her lateness, because they were all, so to speak, rather busy being low-spirited--a condition that nearly always takes people’s attention off others. Poor Adrian was very sorry for himself; very sorry indeed; and there was much excuse for him. It seemed likely that there would be no more sailing in the beloved _Messenger_. Christobel, on her part, was passionately sorry for Adrian. She understood fully what such a blow meant to him who found more delight in sailing than in anything else in life. Mrs. Romilly was grieving for both of them, but as usual was most absorbed in trying to think of a way out of the wood, and how to substitute something that would do--nearly as well. Finally, there was Miss Violet Chance--nicknamed the "Floweret" in happier moments, by the way--who paralysed Mrs. Romilly’s efforts and made matters worse by bright endeavours at dispersing the cloud. "After all," said the Floweret, "what _is_ a yacht? Surely we can find something quite as jolly! What about rounders? Wouldn’t it soon be good weather for croquet?" She suggested to Adrian a collection of moths, and asked him where he had put the stamps he had been so proud of the year before last? Adrian said: "I’ve got them all, thank you, Miss Chance," in a voice that went to Jim Crow’s heart, because the suppressed torture in it was so acute. Because, then, this gloomy company was assembled in the drawing-room, Pamela found no one about, and going straight to the dining-room proceeded to make a good tea; and Hughie, hearing her come in, entered on the tips of his toes, sat down at a distance on the big leather sofa, curled up his toes under him--till he looked like a small soapstone "god"--and waited patiently. "Why aren’t you in bed?" asked Pamela, as she helped herself to some fresh cocoa brought in for her. "It isn’t eight," said Hughie. "My dear child, it’s ten past!" "Well," Hughie glanced at the clock unashamed, "they’ve forgotten me, you see. That’s why I came out here, for fear they should remember." "Miss Chance won’t forget," warned Pamela with conviction. Hughie set that aside. "They are in a state of miserableness, so nobody is remembering things," he said, "it’s rather beastly, Pam, they can’t sail the _Messenger_ any more----"