Sir George looked at her as if he were studying her appearance. Then,

'Yes, child, it does,' he said.

She hesitated, but seemed to make up her mind. 'I have never asked you

where you live,' she said softly; 'have you no house in the country?' He suppressed something between an oath and a groan. 'Yes,' he said, 'I

have a house.' 'What do you call it?' 'Estcombe Hall. It is in Wiltshire, not far from here.' She looked at her fan, and idly flapped it open, and again closed it in

the air. 'Is it a fine place?' she said carelessly.

'I suppose so,' he answered, wincing.

'With trees, and gardens, and woods?' 'Yes.' 'And water?' 'Yes. There is a river.' 'You used to fish in it as a boy?' 'Yes.' 'Estcombe! it is a pretty name. And shall you lose it?' But that was too much for Soane's equanimity. 'Oh, d--n the girl!' he

cried, rising abruptly, but sitting down again. Then, as she recoiled,

in anger real or affected, 'I beg your pardon,' he said formally.

'But--it is not the custom to ask so many questions upon

private matters.' 'Really, Sir George?' she said, receiving the information gravely, and

raising her eyebrows. 'Then Estcombe is your Mr. Dunborough, is it?' 'If you will,' he said, almost sullenly.

'But you love it,' she answered, studying her fan, 'and I do not

love--Mr. Dunborough!' Marvelling at her coolness and the nimbleness of her wit, he turned so

that he looked her full in the face. 'Miss Masterson,' he said, 'you are

too clever for me. Will you tell me where you learned so much? 'Fore

Gad, you might have been at Mrs. Chapone's, the way you talk.' 'Mrs. Chapone's?' she said.

'A learned lady,' he explained.

'I was at a school,' she answered simply, 'until I was fifteen. A

godfather, whom I never knew, left money to my father to be spent on my

schooling.' 'Lord!' he said. 'And where were you at school?' 'At Worcester.' 'And what have you done since?--if I may ask.' 'I have been at home. I should have taught children, or gone into

service as a waiting-woman; but my father would keep me with him. Now I

am glad of it, as this money has come to me.' 'Lord! it is a perfect romance!' he exclaimed. And on the instant he

fancied that he had the key to the mystery, and her beauty. She was

illegitimate--a rich man's child! 'Gad, Mr. Richardson should hear of

it,' he continued with more than his usual energy. 'Pamela--why you

might be Pamela!' 'That if you please,' she said quickly, 'for certainly I shall never be

Clarissa.' Sir George laughed. 'With such charms it is better not to be too sure!'

he answered. And he looked at her furtively and looked away again. A

coach bound eastwards came out of the gates; but it had little of his

attention, though he seemed to be watching the bustle. He was thinking

that if he sat much longer with this strange girl, he was a lost man.

And then again he thought--what did it matter? If the best he had to

expect was exile on a pittance, a consulship at Genoa, a governorship at

Guadeloupe, where would he find a more beautiful, a wittier, a gayer

companion? And for her birth--a fico! His great-grandfather had made

money in stays; and the money was gone! No doubt there would be gibing

at White's, and shrugging at Almack's; but a fico, too, for that--it

would not hurt him at Guadeloupe, and little at Genoa. And then on a

sudden the fortune of which she had talked came into his head, and he

smiled. It might be a thousand; or two, three, four, at most five

thousand. A fortune! He smiled and looked at her.




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