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He accepted a cup of tea from his daughter, and drank it absently
before he asked:
'Where's Desmond?'
'He went to lunch at Fallerton--at the camp. Captain Byles asked
him. I think afterwards he was going to play in a match.'
The same thought passed through the minds of both father and
daughter. 'This day week, Desmond will be gone.' In Pamela it
brought back the dull pain of which she was now habitually
conscious--the pain of expected parting. In her father it aroused an
equally habitual antagonism--the temper, indeed, of ironic
exasperation in which all his thinking and doing were at the moment
steeped. He looked up suddenly.
'Pamela, I have got something disagreeable to say to you.'
His daughter turned a startled face.
'I have had a quarrel with Sir Henry Chicksands, and I do not wish
you, or Desmond, or any of my children, to have any communication
henceforth with him, or with any of his family!'
'Father, what _do_ you mean?'
The girl's incredulous dismay only increased the Squire's
irritation.


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