Pamela acquiesced in silence, and walked in silence to the house. She was conscious that Dare talked, but she scarcely heard what he said in her troubled preoccupation. What he had said beyond there in the shadow of the trees was repeating itself over and over in her mind. She could not misunderstand the purport of his words; and she felt sorry. She liked him so well. She wanted to keep and enjoy his friendship,--wanted him to be in her life, not forced by a recognition of the weakness he hinted at to stand always outside. Why could they not have remained friends in the real sense of the word, as he had first suggested? His admission made it impossible. She felt angry with him. She wanted his friendship so urgently. "You are not offended with me?" he asked presently, struck by her unheeding silence which insensibly conveyed a hurt resentment. He put the question twice before she answered him. "No," she replied. "But--" "But?" he prompted gently. "I want your friendship," she said quickly, with a little nervous catch of her breath. "I thought I had it... And you are making it impossible." "Oh! no," he answered. "I am making it very possible. It is because I feel I may perhaps be useful as a friend that I have been so honest with you. Don't make any mistake about that." She made no response. They were approaching within hearing of the others, and Mrs Carruthers was leaning on the rail of the stoep, watching their slow advance, observing them, it occurred to Pamela, from the concentrated earnestness of her look, with an unaccountable interest. She leaned towards them as they came up. "I'm on the verge of quarrelling with every one," she said with remarkable cheerfulness. "You've only arrived in time to prevent bloodshed. If you have tired of doing the romantic, come in and let us have some music." "Sing to us, Mrs Arnott," pleaded Carruthers,--"something soothing. My wife has been most extraordinarily aggravating." Pamela made some laughing response, and joined him. Mrs Carruthers turned towards Dare, who remained standing alone at the top of the steps. "I have saved the situation for you this evening," she said, "and lost my own temper. But I am thankful for three things." "And they are?" he inquired. "That there is no moon,--that you turned back when you did,--and that to-morrow is not many hours off." "I never believed before," he returned drily, "that it was in your nature to be unpleasant." She smiled encouragingly. "You are only beginning," she said, "to gauge my possibilities." CHAPTER TWELVE.