Every word was said with difficulty, torn out of her by the shock of her father’s statement.  The Squire stared at her threateningly a little, then quieted down.  He did not want a wrangle with Pamela, to whom in general he was not unkind, while keeping a strict rule over her.

’Do nothing?  What should we do?  As if the war did not bleed us at every turn already.  I warn you all I shan’t be able to pay the income tax next year.  Mannering will be sold up.’  And thrusting his hands again into his pockets, he looked gloomily before him, over a piece of ill-kept garden, to the sloping park and blue interlacing hills that filled the distance.

Elizabeth Bremerton put down her teacup, glanced at the father and daughter, and went discreetly away, back to the library and her work.

Pamela hesitated a little, but at last moved nearer to him, and put a hand on his arm.

‘Father!  I dreadfully want you to let me do something!’

‘Eh, what?’ said Mannering, rousing himself.  ’Don’t try and coax me, child.  It doesn’t answer.’

‘I don’t want to coax you,’ said the girl proudly withdrawing her hand.  ’It’s a very simple thing.  Will you let me go and do day work at the new Hospital, just across the park?  They want some help in the housework.  There are fifty wounded men there.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mannering firmly.  ’You are too young.  You have your education to think of.  I told you I engaged Miss Bremerton to give you two hours’ classics a day.  When we’ve arranged these pots, she’ll be free.  You must also keep up your music.  You have no time for housemaiding.  And I don’t approve of housemaiding for my daughter.’

’The nicest girls I know are doing anything—­scrubbing, washing up, polishing bath-taps, making swabs, covering splints,’ said Pamela in a low voice.  ’There are two of the Joyce girls at this hospital, just my age.  Of course they don’t let you do any nursing—­for months.’

’Lord Entwhistle may do what he likes with his girls.  I propose to do what I think best with mine,’ said Mannering as he rose.

Then the girl’s passion broke out.

’It’s horrible, father, that you won’t do anything for the war, or let me do anything.  Oh, I’m glad’—­she clenched her hands as she stood opposite him, her beautiful head thrown back—­’I’m thankful, that you can’t stop Desmond!’

Mannering looked at her, frowned, turned abruptly, and went away whistling.

Pamela was left alone in the September evening.  She betook herself to an old grass-grown walk between yew hedges at the bottom of the Dutch garden, and paced it in a tumult of revolt and pain.  Not to go to Chetworth again! not to see Beryl, or any of them!  How cruel! how monstrously unjust!