She was a little startled into the half-conscious naïveté by the dumb demand of the look fastened upon her. Besides, she was certainly moved--in despite of _mère-adoptive_ and some significant warnings received from her--by the submission to her thrall of a seigneur whose ancient nobility no present penury could impeach. But she had no sooner spoken than she recollected herself. “Do you think me like Mademoiselle d’Orléans?” she said, hurriedly stopping one question with another. “It is some that say we might be _sœurs consanguines_.” What did the child mean? Had she any secret theory as to her own origin; and, if so, was she subtly intent upon discounting her first avowal? She may have wished to imply that no real necessity was for her self-depreciation. She may have wished only to divert the course of her neighbour’s thoughts. He was about to answer in some astonishment, ridiculing the suggestion, when Mr Sheridan hailed Pamela from his place opposite. “A nosegay!” he cried, tapping his own flushed cheek in illustration. “Give me a rose to wear for a favour.” “It is easy,” said the girl. Her eyes sparkled. She turned to a servant. “Go, fetch for Mr Sherree-den my rouge in the little box,” she said. “Fie, then, naughty child!” cried madame; “it merits you rather to receive the little box on the ear.” But the great orator chuckled with laughter. “Pigwidgeon, pigwidgeon!” he said, nodding his head at the culprit. “Not for youth and health are rouge and enamel, and all the vestments of vanity.” “Not eiser for youth or age,” said madame severely. “But only for ugliness,” said Sheridan. “No,” said madame--“nor for zat. It is all immoral.” “Immoral!” he cried; “immoral to put a good face on misfortune!” He looked only across the table, over the brim of his glass, when he had uttered his _mot_. He delighted to make the girl laugh. His own wonderful eyes would seem to ripple with merriment when he saw the light of glee spring forward in hers. Pigwidgeon he called her, and she answered to the name with all the sprightliness it expressed. “Pigwidgeon,” says he, “when you come to the age of crow’s foot, you shall know ’tis a lying proverb that preacheth what’s done cannot be undone, or, as a pedantic fellow writes it, ‘what cannot be repaired is not to be regretted.’” “And it is vary true,” says madame stiffly--“whosoever the pedant.” “Well,” says Sheridan, “’twas no other than him that writ ‘Rasselas’; for which work let us hope that God by this time hath damned him--with faint praise.” He checked himself immediately. “That were better left unnoticed,” says he, with great soberness; “’tis only the fool that uses the sacred name in flippancy.”