“George, I’ll curb it. I did but jest with you. Haven’t I learned my speaking parts, and said them to the letter, too, without one extra oath?” She was stroking his arms up and down; her fingers wandered to his hands, and gave themselves softly to that refuge; her lifted eyes were full of azure pain. “Tell me what you desire of me,” she said with pretty wooing. “Why, discretion first and last,” he answered. “Have you got it?” “Haven’t I! Why, look how particular I can be in the choice of my friends.” “You’ll have to play a double part.” “Twice tenpence is two and sixpence, George. It ought to pay me.” “It ought and shall, if you’re clever. Help me to bring about a thing I much desire, and your fortunes, as I promised, shall be made my care.” He questioned the young uplifted face. Her hands were still held in his. “Was the _thing_ born a girl?” she said. He laughed, but did not answer, and she seemed to muse, her lids lowered. “What a pretty gentleman you are, George!” she said absently, by and by. “I never guessed at first, when you came that unhandsome off the road, what fine clothes could make of you. Why are you going to take me to the haberdasher’s?” “To prink you out for great company, child.” She looked up breathlessly. “Not the King’s!” “All in good time,” he said--“if you please me.” “Well,” she said, looking down again, “I’ll do my best--saving my honour. Will that please you?” “Faith,” says the gentleman coolly, “if you save it at the expense of another’s.” She drew back a little. “Not a woman’s?” “Never fear, Mrs. Moll. ’Tis your pretty rogue’s face and your ready impudence I wish for a bait, and they’d catch no woman, believe me. Come, are you prepared to engage them in my service?” She primmed her lips, holding up a finger. “Discretion,” she said. “I’ll answer when I’m told.” He nodded, and, leading her apart from betraying keyholes, seated himself and pulled her to a chair beside him. “Now,” said he, “give me your little lovely ear, while I whisper in it.” She sat at attention like a mouse, while he spoke his low-voiced scheme to her. Mischief, intelligence, secret laughter waited on her lips and eyes as she leaned to listen, sometimes shaking her curls, sometimes whispering the softest little “yes” or “no.” And when at last it was all said, she jumped to her feet with a laugh that was like glass bells, and clapped her hands merrily, while her companion sat, one arm akimbo, regarding her with a pleasant waiting expression. “Well,” he said; “you’ll do it?” She strutted, assuming the grand air, and swept a curtsey. “I am my lord Chesterfield’s most obliged,” she said throatily. Hamilton rose with a grin. “You will, I can see,” said he. “It’s really simple if you will only bear in mind this main assurance--_they are not on speaking terms, and each will think the other has invited you_.” CHAPTER IV