'I say, Pamela, who _is_ this female, and why has she descended on us ?' The speaker was Desmond Mannering.

He was sitting on the edge of a much dilapidated arm-chair in the room which had been the twins' "den" from their childhood, in which Pamela's governess even, before the girl's school years, was allowed only on occasional and precarious footing.

Here Pamela dabbed in photography, made triumphant piles of the socks and mittens she kept from her father's eye, read history, novels, and poetry, and wrote to her school friends and the boys she had met in Scotland.

Ranged along the mantelpiece were numbers of snapshots--groups and single figures--taken by her, with results that showed her no great performer.
At the moment, however, Pamela was engaged in marking Desmond's socks.

She was very jealous of her sisterly prerogative in the matter of Desmond's kit, and personal affairs generally.