from various angles, she sighed; everything looked solid, expensive, and subdued, but it did not please her eye at all (though she had to admit to herself that everything seemed very comfortable nevertheless).
The clothes you choose, and the furniture you choose to surround yourself with, are an index of your character to a stranger. To Pamela, who could not remember ever seeing Miss Crabingway, this room was an introduction. Of Miss Crabingway's character she knew nothing, but in her mind's eye she pictured Miss Crabingway fond of solid, expensive things, as large and dark, with rich, black, rustling dresses, and gold brooches, and a lot of thick gold rings set with large stones on her fingers. Her face she could not imagine—except that it would be massive and well preserved. Pamela never could imagine people's faces, in her mind's eye; she could conjure up people's figures and movements clearly—but the faces were always dim and misty. It sometimes worried her that even her mother's face or Michael's refused to be clearly recalled when she was away from them. Of course she knew their features by heart, and every twist and turn of their heads—but she could not see their features in her mind's eye.
Having imagined Miss Crabingway, therefore, as well as she was able, she hastily flung off her outdoor things, washed her hands and face and brushed her hair, and prepared to go downstairs. She was wearing her artistic, dark green frock, and as she stood a moment with her hand on the door knob taking a final glance round the room, she looked as fresh and clear-eyed a specimen of girlhood as one could wish to see.
She made her way downstairs, and seeing an open door and a lighted room on the left of the hall, she entered. It was, as she had expected, the dining-room. Dark, sombre furniture again, and rich hangings; there was a cheerful fire burning in the grate, and a white cloth, and cups and saucers on the table hinted at tea in the near future.
Pamela had come in silently, her footsteps making no sound on the thick carpet, and it was not until she had been standing for a few seconds inside the doorway that she noticed that there was some one already in the room—some one who had evidently not seen, nor heard, Pamela enter.
Crouching by the fire, and almost hidden by a big arm-chair that stood on the rug, was a girl; she had her back to the door and did not move as Pamela stood watching for a moment. The girl's thin hands were stretched out to the blaze as if she were cold, and her head leant against the side of the chair; she made no sound, but there was something in her attitude that suggested great dejection and loneliness.
Pamela was just about to go forward when a slight sound between a sob and a sigh escaped the figure, and Pamela paused. She felt that it would make the girl embarrassed to think that she had been watched and overheard. So Pamela backed stealthily out of the room (hoping she wouldn't run into Ellen or Martha), and crept up the stairs again; she waited a moment on the landing, shut her bedroom door with a snap, then came running downstairs, humming and patting the banisters with her hand as she came—so as to give warning of her approach.
She entered the dining-room. The girl was sitting in the arm-chair now, and stood up nervously as Pamela came in. She was a pale, thin girl, with large dark eyes and black hair, and her movements were nervous and jerky. She wore a dark-coloured skirt and a white silk blouse with short sleeves to the elbow, which made her look very cold, and emphasized the thinness of her arms.
The two girls gazed at each other for a second, then Pamela gave a friendly smile.
"As there's no one here to introduce us, we'll introduce ourselves, shall we? I'm Pamela Heath," she said.
"I'm Beryl Cranswick," said the girl, smiling shyly.
Pamela held out her hand, and they shook hands.
"I'm so glad to meet you," said Pamela. "I suppose we are the first two to arrive."
"I suppose so," said Beryl, which did not help matters forward at all.
"What time did you arrive?" asked Pamela. "I came by the four o'clock train from Marylebone."
"I arrived here this afternoon about three," Beryl informed her.
"Oh, you've been here a long time then—it's just gone six now. I didn't know you were here when I came—they didn't mention it to me.... But have you had any tea yet?"
Beryl shook her head.
"Why—why ever not?" said Pamela, in surprise, ringing the bell by the fireplace. "We'll have some at once, shall we?"
"They did ask me if I'd have some—but I said I'd wait. I—I didn't like to—to bother them—till you came," stammered Beryl.
"Why, you must have been awfully cold and hungry after that long railway journey; you should have had a cup of tea and something—I'm sure it wouldn't have been a bit of trouble to them," said Pamela, seizing the poker and stirring up the fire. "Sit down and have a good warm—you look quite cold still. We'll soon have this fire … there! that's better."
Ellen appeared at this moment, in answer to the bell.
"Oh, could we have some tea, please?" said Pamela. "What time are the other arrivals expected, can you tell me?"
"I don't know, miss," replied Ellen. "At least, not for certain—sometime to-day, that's all Miss Crabingway told us. The last down train gets in at Barrowfield at midnight."
"Oh, I see. Well, it's no good waiting for them, I suppose—we'd better have tea now in case they don't arrive till midnight," said Pamela.
"Very well, miss. I'll bring it in at once," and Ellen departed.
It was rather a queer experience for Pamela, playing hostess in this strange house to strange people, but her frank, easy manners helped her considerably.
Beryl, in Pamela's position, would have suffered agonies of indecision and nervousness, and she felt thankful she was not in Pamela's shoes, though she certainly envied the unself-conscious ease with which Pamela managed things. They were really quite small, insignificant things, but to Beryl, very self-conscious and timid, they would have caused much dismay. Beryl was passing through a stage of acute self-consciousness, not due to vanity in the slightest, but to nerves. Even to eat in public was a misery to her; although she was aware that she was scrupulously particular in the way she drank or ate her food, yet she hated having to have meals with other people; she always felt that they were watching her—criticizing her.
And so, when she and Pamela had tea together for the first time, she hardly ate or drank anything. Unfortunately, by accident, she got a plum jam stone in her mouth and did not like to remove it, suffering much discomfort in consequence until Pamela's attention being distracted to the window blind behind her for a moment, Beryl quickly conveyed the stone to her plate again, and finished her tea in peace. Pamela, who was as fastidious as anyone in her table manners, was yet quite easy, and appeared to enjoy a huge tea with comfort and daintiness combined. Beryl certainly did envy her that evening. She wondered what Pamela would have done if she had got a plum stone in her mouth—and rather wished this could happen so that she might see how easily Pamela would act. But Beryl's luck was out; no such opportunity occurred.
Over tea Pamela gave Beryl a long account of her home and people, and then began making inquiries about Beryl's home. But Beryl was strangely reticent, and only stated a few bald facts. She was an orphan, she said; no brothers—no sisters—and her father and mother had been dead many years; her aunt, with whom she lived, had her home just outside London—at Enfield. Beryl said she had never been to boarding-school; no, she didn't go out much—didn't know many people—they lived very quietly—and so on. From Beryl's manner Pamela gathered that she did not wish to discuss her home or aunt, so the matter was dropped, and Pamela suggested that when tea was over they should ask Martha or Ellen to show them over the
