After that he was rather more careful, and indulged in these familiarities only when he felt certain that Pamela could not overhear. But his conduct in other respects continued to affront her, and spoilt her enjoyment entirely of the holiday which had promised so much pleasure at the beginning. She felt only anxious to return home. Had it not been for the disappointment it would have occasioned the children, she would have curtailed the holiday. When the fortnight was nearly expired, Arnott proposed remaining at Muizenberg for another week, but Pamela refused to do this. He did not urge her. He had put forward the suggestion in an offhand, self-conscious manner; and when she objected, he merely remarked that he thought it would be nice for the children, and then dropped the subject. But her refusal incensed him. Opposition to his wishes always made him angry. It exasperated him to be forced to submit to her decision; but he swallowed his annoyance, and said nothing. He went for a walk with Blanche, and confided to her that he was sick of his life. He derived immense consolation from her sympathetic silence, and the return pressure of her fingers when he sought her hand,--the first time she had responded in this way. There being no one in sight, he stooped and kissed her. "You can't imagine what a help you are to me," he said. "I am glad," she answered. "No one has ever wanted my help before." "I want it," he said. "Just now,--because you are unhappy. But it won't always be like that." "It will," he insisted. "I shall always want you. You are necessary to me. You make life bearable." "I don't think it very likely that I shall be with you much longer," she said. "Why?" he asked quickly. She shook her head, and gave him one of her sphinx-like smiles. "I can't explain," she replied. "But I think it will be as I say." "You don't want to leave us?" he asked. She hesitated, and looked straight ahead along the hot white road. The expression of her face was difficult to read; the man, watching it closely, learned nothing from it. He was conscious only of the sudden hardening of the lines about her mouth. "Do I?" she murmured, rather to herself than to him, and added slowly:--"I don't know." "That's nonsense," he exclaimed impatiently. "You must know whether you are happy with us." "I am not happy," she returned, without looking at him. "I don't think it should be difficult for you to realise that... I don't think mine is a happy nature," she continued in low, dispassionate tones. "I can't remember being ever really happy--as most people are happy--even as a child. There has been little enough of love or brightness in my life." "I want to show you something of both," he said. "I could, if you would let me. I care a lot for you, you know." She smiled drearily. "That's not of any use to me," she replied... "You know that." "I'll wait," he said confidently. "You'll change your mind about that some day."