Sir Henry meanwhile was engaged in the congenial occupation of inspecting and showing his kitchen gardens.  His son Arthur and Pamela Mannering were following him round the greenhouses, finding more amusement in the perplexities of Sir Henry’s conscience than interest in the show itself.

’You see they’ve brought in the chrysanthemums.  Just in time!  There was a frost last night,’ said Sir Henry, throwing open a door, and disclosing a greenhouse packed with chrysanthemums in bud.

‘My hat—­what a show!’ said his son.

‘Not at all, Arthur, not at all,’ said his father, annoyed.  ’Not a third of what we had last year.’

Arthur raised his eyebrows, and behind his father’s back he and Pamela exchanged smiles.  The next house showed a couple of elderly men at work pruning roses intended to flower in February and March.

‘This is almost my favourite house,’ exclaimed Sir Henry.  ’Such a wonderful result for so little labour!’ He strolled on complacently.

‘How long does this take you, Grimes?’ Arthur inquired discreetly of one of the gardeners.

’Oh, a good while, Mr. Arthur—­what with the pruning, and the syringing, and the manuring,’ said the man addressed, stopping to wipe his brow, for the day was mild.

Arthur’s look darkened a little.  He fell into a reverie, while Pamela was conscious at every step of his tall commanding presence, of the Military Cross on his khaki breast, and the pleasant, penetrating eyes under his staff cap.  Arthur, she thought, must be now over thirty.  Before his recent wound he had been doing some special artillery work on the Staff of an Army Corps, and was a very rising soldier.  He was now chafing hotly against the ruling of his Medical Board, who were insisting that he was not yet fit to go back to France.

Pamela meanwhile was going through moments of disillusion.  After these two years she had looked forward to the meeting with such eagerness, such hidden emotion!  And now—­what was there to have been eager about?  They seemed to be talking almost as strangers.  The soreness of it bewildered her.

Presently, as they were walking back to the house, leaving Sir Henry in anxious consultation over the mushroom-house with the grey-haired head gardener, her companion turned to her abruptly.

‘I suppose that’s all right!’ He pointed to some distant figures on the fringe of a wood.

’Beryl and Aubrey?  Yes—­if Aubrey can make her see that she isn’t doing him any harm by letting him go on.’

‘Good heavens! how could she do him any harm?’

‘Well, there’s Mannering.  As if that mattered!’ said the girl scornfully.  ‘And then—­Beryl’s too dreadfully humble!’

‘Humble!  About what?  No girl ought to be humble—­ever!’

Pamela’s eyes recovered their natural brilliance under his peremptory look.  And he, who had begun the walk with no particular consciousness at all about his companion, except that she was a nice, good-looking child, whom he had known from a baby, with equal suddenness became aware of her in a new way.