28b The Real Charlotte. 



it. " Oh, thank you, Mr. Hawkins, I should be very glad 

 if you would put these rugs in the carriage." 



Hawkins disappeared with the rugs in the wake of Lady 

 Dysart, and Lambert and Pamela and Francie followed 

 slowly together in the same direction. Pamela was in the 

 difficult position of a person who is full of a sympathy that 

 it is wholly out of the question to express. 



" I am so glad that we chanced to meet you here," she 

 said, " we have not heard anything of you for such a long 

 time." 



The kindness in her voice had the effect of conveying to 

 Francie how much in need of kindness she was, and the 

 creeping smart of tears gathered under her eyelids. 



" It's awfully kind of you to say so. Miss Dysart," she 

 said, with something in her voice that made even the 

 Dublin brogue pathetic ; " I didn't think anyone at Lismoyle 

 remembered me now." 



" Oh, we don't forget people quite so quickly as that," 

 said Pamela, thinking that Mr. Hawkins must have behaved 

 worse than she had believed ; *' I see this is our carriage. 

 Mamma, did you know that Miss Fitzpatrick was here ? " 



Lady Dysart was already sitting in the carriage, her face 

 fully expressing the perturbation that she felt, as she counted 

 the parcels that Mr. Hawkins was bestowing in the netting. 



" Oh yes," she said, with a visible effort to be poHte, " I 

 saw her just now ; do get in, my dear, the thing may start 

 at any moment." 



If her mind had room for anything beside the anxieties of 

 travelling, it was disapprobation of Francie and of the fact 

 that she was going about alone with Mr. Lambert, and the 

 result was an absence of geniality that added to Francie's 

 longing to get away as soon as possible. Lambert was now 

 talking to Pamela, blocking up the doorway of the carriage 

 as he stood on the step, and over his shoulder she could see 

 Hawkins, still with his back to her, and still apparently very 

 busy with the disposal of the dressing-bags and rugs. He 

 was not going to speak to her again, she thought, as she 

 stood a little back from the open door with the frosty air 

 nipping her through her thin jacket ; she was no more to 

 him than a stranger, she, who knew every turn of his head, 

 and the feeling ol his yellow hair that the carriage lamp was 



