'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.
'I mean what I say.

Of course your married sisters and Aubrey will do what they please, though I have warned Aubrey how I shall view it if he takes sides against me.

But you and Desmond are under my control--you, at any rate.