“What, that odious, bold-faced, dressed-up strumpet!” exclaimed Kitty, “driving about in the park in his Lordship’s curricle, and brazening it at the Opera, till a woman of virtue scarce knows which way to look!” and: “The Spanish woman that ran away with Lord Sanquhar!” shouted Mr. Bellairs, “whose husband was shot before my very eyes as he was trying to stop her? Aye, aye, I remember there was a little child.” “And only three days ago,” said Pamela, “I turned the woman out of the shop. ’Tis transported she’d be, if justice were done.” At this my Lady Kilcroney stepped across the room and embraced Miss Pamela Pounce. Then she kissed the child, too, with lingering, repeated caress, that round velvet cheek stirring irresistible motherly passions. “And it shall have a cake, it shall, and nice chockey to drink, it shall, the pretty rogue! Ring the bell, Jocelyn.” Having obeyed, Mr. Bellairs advanced, nostrils dilated, swaggering a little as he came, with a defiant smartness which did not sit ill on him. “I presume, Aunt Kilcroney, that as there is nothing else upon which you can desire to confer with me, you would wish me to withdraw. Nevertheless, there is one word I should like to say in your hearing to Miss Pamela Pounce. Will you spare me a hand, Pamela. Thank you. I kiss this honest hand, this honest, kindly, helpful hand, and I say that if you will condescend to bestow it on me, I will----” But Pamela drew away her fingers, and curtsying, child and all, said with great dignity: “Thank you, Mr. Bellairs, I have no intention of changing my state.” Kitty looked doubtfully from one to the other. Had he been in earnest? She saw that Pamela did not think so, for the girl had coloured to the roots of her hair, and tossed her head. She would have no gentleman’s pity or condescension. The countenance of the young man was inscrutable, as he bowed very low, turned on his heel, and left the room. * * * * * It was past nine that evening before Madame Mirabel’s head milliner had sufficiently made up her afternoon’s holiday to be able to leave the workroom. There was a purple twilight over the whole busy town, and the lamplighter was going round with his ladder, leaving a jonquil flame behind him at long intervals. Here and there a torch flared in a link. The streets were full of the sound of feet, the quick feet of those hurrying home, the slow feet of the strollers. Pamela was tired; the day had been a long and agitating one. She paused a moment on the pavement, outside the shop, to inhale the warm air, and to enjoy the sense of leisure, at last. Her mind worked mechanically. “A twist of purple net on dark blue satin, with a tuft of orange feathers. ’Twould be a new combination and vastly genteel. (’Twould suit my Lady Kilcroney too, with her pansy eyes.)” Some one came up behind her with a quick tread that suddenly faltered. Then a voice called her: “Pamela!” “La, Mr. Bellairs, what a start you give me!”