A man was pacing slowly up and down an avenue of pollarded limes which divided the rose-garden from the park.

His figure could only be intermittently seen; but it was certainly the Squire.
She drew the curtains again without shutting the window; and for long after she was in bed she still heard the footstep.

It awakened many trains of thought in her--of her own position in this household where she seemed to have become already mistress and indispensable; of Desmond's last words with her; of the relations between father and son; of Captain Chicksands and his most agreeable company; of Pamela's evident dislike of her, and what she could do to mend it.
As to Pamela, Elizabeth's thoughts went oddly astray.

She was vexed with the girl for what had seemed to the elder woman her young rudeness to a gallant and distinguished man.

Why, she had scarcely spoken a word to him during the sitting on the hill! In some way, Elizabeth supposed, Captain Chicksands had offended her--had not made enough of her perhaps?
But girls must learn now to accept simpler and blunter manners from their men friends.