Dare, talking a little apart with Pamela, gazed thoughtfully at the quiet darkness of the garden and proposed walking in it. She hesitated for the fraction of a second, and then complied. He noted the slight hesitation, and felt glad that she conquered her reluctance. To have refused his request would have seemed to suggest a want of confidence in him. Nevertheless, some impulse, prompted by the recollection of that slight hesitation, impelled him to turn before they got beyond view of the others on the lighted stoep, and confine their walking to the limit of the path in front of the house. He had not intended this at the start; he longed for darkness and solitude. The murmur of voices, the little disjointed scraps of conversation overheard as they passed and repassed, disturbed him irritatingly; Arnott's frequently raised, assertive tones sounded intrusive, broke upon the quiet of the garden discordantly, reminding the two who walked in it of his presence with a needlessly aggressive insistence. Dare tried to ignore these things, but they jarred his nerves none the less. He had not suspected until recently that he possessed any nerves; but they had made many disquieting manifestations of their actuality of late. "I can't grow accustomed to the thought that you are leaving to-morrow," Pamela said to him presently. Her voice was low, and betrayed unmistakable regret. The back of her hand brushed his lightly as they paced the gravel slowly side by side. The contact gave him immense satisfaction; he was grateful to her for not increasing the space between them and thus denying him this small pleasure. "Of course I knew you were only down for a short while; but your departure is a little unexpected, isn't it?" "I came for a week," he answered with a brief laugh. "It's been a long one as days are reckoned, but time skips along when one is enjoying oneself... It was sweet of you to say that, to allow me to think that you will miss me a little. We have had some pleasant times together. The worst of these things is there always has to be an end. I shall miss you more than you will miss me." "I wonder!" said Pamela. He turned his head suddenly and looked her squarely in the eyes. The light from the stoep shone on her face and showed it very fair and pale and pure. She turned aside as though unwilling to bear his earnest scrutiny. "One grows used to people," she said. "Somehow, I have always felt at home with you. When you go away I have a feeling that you won't come back. I had that feeling last time." "Yet here I am," he said in a lighter tone. "Yes," she said. "I know. It's stupid of me. I hate losing sight of friends. I have so few." "Few!" he echoed. "I expect if I had half the number I should reckon myself rich." "You don't use the word in the sense I do," she returned. "I meant the friends one can depend upon... who wouldn't fail one under any circumstances."