But as she spoke she turned round on her chair. What a marvel of loveliness she was, thought the milliner. ’Twas but natural any poor young gentleman that loved her should be distraught upon her. He gazed on her wildly, then broke out, clasping his hands: “Nay,” he cried. “I will not believe it. I will not believe it, unless you tell me yourself. Felicity, my father is dead. I am my own master. Look at me. Behold this black. I came straight--yes, I am not ashamed of it--straight from the closing of my father’s grave to offer you my hand and name.” He paused. “I ought, no doubt, to be overwhelmed at your generosity. A month ago you were no less ardent, if I remember right, in pressing a different proposition,” she said very quietly. Pamela’s heart quickened in passionate sympathy. What a world was this for poor girls! “It’s not possible,” the young gentleman cried, “that you will carry rancour so far! A month ago I was not a free agent; a month ago I--oh, confusion! You cannot have understood. I--Miss Falcon, I am now Earl Ashmore, and I ask you to become my countess. This is a question of marriage. You cannot thus lightly dismiss so honourable, so respectful an offer!” “Marriage!” she laughed. “I, too, am a free agent, sir, and I have tasted liberty longer than you. I have no desire to relinquish it.” A moment he stood gazing at her with clenched hands and open mouth, as if unable to grasp the extent of her folly and his own misery. Then he snapped his jaws together and crimsoned to the roots of his lightly powdered hair. “It’s true, then?” “What is true?” “What all the world says; that you’re my Lord Harborough’s--my Lord Harborough’s----” He choked upon the word. Pamela Pounce held her breath in the dreadful silence that ensued. Then: “Don’t be a foolish lad,” said Miss Falcon in a changed kind voice. “One day you’ll say, ‘Whatever the player woman may have done, she did one good deed to me. She wouldn’t marry me when I was fool enough to ask her.’” Then Felicity turned back to the mirror with a laugh that rang like tinkling icicles, so musical it was, so cold. The wretched young man cast himself on his knees, lifted his clasped hands and wrung them. He had forgotten that there was any witness, save the one who was, at that moment, all the world to him. “Felicity, I don’t care what you have done--what you are to that bad old man. I will forgive everything. Come to me and be my wife!” “Now, Bonnets, open the door. Miss Pounce, pray put a hand upon my Lord’s elbow and help him to rise. That is the way out, my Lord Ambrose. (I cannot help it. I remember best the name under which you once insulted me.) _You_ forgive me? Had I the time I could laugh. Heavens! But three minutes to get into the paduasoy!” She did laugh as the young nobleman, a look on his face which struck a kind of terror into Pamela’s womanly heart, flung his hands out with a menace and dashed from the room.