Now, at seven, she was as tall as most children of ten, immensely fat,
with pendulous red cheeks that in spite of cold cream and soft water
always looked as though they had just been rubbed with a grater. Her
hair, long and fair, was dank, hanging in two emaciated pig-tails nearly
to her waist, and her nails--another ineradicable trick--bitten to the
deepest depths possible.
"Pammy, dear, what have you been doing?" inquired Pam, gently.
"Looking out the window--and I ate some more plaster." Stolidly, with
lack-lustre eyes, the culprit gazed at her benefactor.
Pam sighed, but her mouth twitched. "I asked you not to."
"I know. I didn't mean to, but--it looked so good."
"'_Tous les gouts sont dans la nature_,' my dear," quoted Lensky, coming
in at the open window, "there are even people who like German bands!"
Looking down at Pammy through his eyeglass, the sun fell full on his
head, betraying an incipient bald patch. Otherwise Lensky had aged not
at all since his marriage.
"I saw Lady Brigit just now," he said, suddenly, "down in the olive
grove. I think something has happened. She looked--queer."
Pam started. "Poor dear--I'll go and speak to her--only, you know, she
never says a word to me about her trouble, whatever it is.
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