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damped, found time to rearrange her opinions and settle down to make a long visit. Uncle Markham remained much what she had thought him at first, and she certainly liked him far the best—but then, after all, he was a relation. (“Blood will tell!” She could almost see Tony’s mocking eyes that were so soft and different when he said good-bye to her at the Straines’. . . . Tony! . . . Where was he now? On his way to England, she sincerely hoped. In a few mails she ought to get news of him from a whole disturbed ant-heap of relations over there. What a mercy to think she was out of it all!). . . Aunt Rosa? . . . Well! why did men like Uncle Markham marry women who weren’t quite ladies? That was a mystery to Pamela still; but at least she could be practically ignored, since she seemed greatly to prefer it. She spent her silent days doing things about the house in which no one was allowed to interfere, and Pamela was happy enough reading or sewing in the garden, riding or walking, and talking to her uncle in the evenings. Alick Power, too, though so different from any man she had met before, was surely very kind. He had given up staring at her, and he took her for several long rides when it was not necessary to talk very much, which was pleasant, since they did not seem to have any subjects in common. If he only would not pay her such unbridled compliments! No girl could object to hearing nice things about herself if they were said in the right way, but Power’s seemed to be always the wrong way. For one thing, he appeared to think she was sure to like whatever he said; there was something appraising in his tone which savoured strongly of condescension and made her blush scarlet—and redder still if he smiled, and she realised that he imagined she blushed for pleasure at his approval. She tried to make allowances for him—to see only his undoubted capabilities and the qualities which aroused so much admiration in Uncle Markham—there must be ever so much to respect