"I don't deny it," he returned. "So far as I am able to judge, the arrangement has worked towards the greater comfort of the establishment all round. That's one reason why I think we ought to study the girl. At present she is being treated like an upper servant. That won't do. A girl needs some society outside the nursery." "Very well," agreed Pamela. "We will inaugurate the new system to-morrow." Accordingly on the morrow Miss Maitland joined them at dinner. Although Arnott himself had suggested, and practically insisted on this extension of privileges, he made very little effort in helping Pamela in the laborious task of sustaining conversation during the meal, or later when they sat on the stoep. The governess occupied herself with some sewing, and Arnott sat under the electric light and read the papers, only very occasionally throwing in a remark. Pamela found the evening very tedious, and was relieved when punctually at nine-thirty Miss Maitland retired. Never very talkative, Miss Maitland's powers of conversation seemed to dry up in Arnott's presence. She seldom looked at him, and never addressed him spontaneously. "Bit dull, isn't she?" Arnott observed, when she had left them and gone indoors. He dropped his paper on to the floor and yawned. Then he got up. "You don't seem to have the knack of setting her at her ease," he said irritably. "I don't see what more I can be expected to do," Pamela returned, a little nettled. "She is shy--I think of you. When we are alone she is more companionable." "Well, I'm going in for a whisky," he said. "Dull people always give me a thirst." He went inside. Miss Maitland was mounting the stairs as he crossed the hall. He paused at the foot of the stairs and looked after her. "Good-night,--mouse," he called softly. She looked back over her shoulder and flushed warmly. "Good-night," she answered, and gave him one of her rare smiles, and hurried on. He entered the dining-room, drank off a glass of whisky, and poured himself out a second, which he carried with him on to the stoep and placed in the armhole of his chair. He had quite recovered his good humour. He smiled a trifle self-consciously, and leaned over the back of Pamela's chair, and rallied her on her silence. "Am I to sit through the rest of the evening with another speechless young woman?" he inquired. Pamela, who felt unaccountably depressed, made no direct reply to this. Instead she observed: "Blanche plays wonderfully. Would it bore you if I suggested a little music occasionally? I think she would enjoy it, and it would relieve the strain." "It wouldn't bore me," he answered. "I'm fond of music when it's good. If she would like to strum, let her. There was a time when you used to sing to me. But I haven't heard you sing for months, and then only when we had people here." Pamela remembered perfectly. The last time she had sung was the night Dare dined with them.