She glanced at him brightly, a swift colour flushing her cheeks. He seated himself on the sofa near the tea-table, and studied her curiously when he believed himself unobserved. He speculated on what might be in her mind, what the actual thoughts and feeling were which she hid so successfully behind her welcoming manner. For the first time within his knowledge of her he realised a subtlety, a certain secretive force, which he had not suspected in her. It was like coming unexpectedly upon a familiar spot and finding the view altered and contracted by surprising innovations. One felt that behind the obstructions the prospect was exactly the same; it was one's own view that was restricted and created these new impressions. "It's good to be home," he said, and dropped into a discursive chat about the places he had visited. "Tried all I could to get rid of the thought of you, Pam," he said at the finish, and glanced at her with a sudden, faintly deprecating smile. "It wasn't a bit of use. You pursued and brought me back... God! how you haunted me at nights! ... And your face looked back at me from the water whenever I gazed down at the sea." Pamela sat down beside him. She slipped a hand into his, but she did not look at him. "It's been the same with me," she said,--"you were always there, somehow. I wonder... I suppose there are lots of people like ourselves who grow dependent on one another... You've never been away from me before." "And you missed me?" he questioned. She looked at him then with grave, perplexed eyes, and nodded. "It was an experiment," he said presently. "I wanted to see if we could do it--and we can't... We can't part." "And we can't," Pamela repeated slowly. "No, I don't think we can." Suddenly she leaned forward and played nervously with a little fanciful spoon in her saucer. "I meant to," she said,--"at first. I felt--I still feel it's the right thing to do. After you had gone away, I knew I couldn't. I suppose I am not a good woman really." She broke off the jerky sentences, and gazed at him somewhat wistfully. "It's hard to want to be happy, and to know that one ought not to be. I suppose that's why she told me... She wouldn't leave me to be peacefully ignorant. She wanted to stretch me on the rack too." "Lord knows!" he answered, and stirred his tea irritably. "She's threatened to tell you," he added, "ever since some fool of an acquaintance, who'd been out here and was struck with the name, told her that I was living here; but I thought I could intercept the letter. I didn't allow for it coming to the house. I knew she would never make an open scandal. She's too proud, for one thing. Besides, she is absolutely indifferent. So long as we are not in the same country, it would never trouble her what I did." "But," said Pamela, a little shyly, "she must have loved you once."