Here my Lord himself took up the tale, his lazy, pleasant voice creaming forth in contrast to the excited tones of the young milliner. “And faith, bad husband as I am--troth, sure it’s the worst in the world--there was but one thing for me to do, and that was to protect me wife. So I went to His Royal Highness and did a little bit of coaxing--not that he needed much. God bless him, isn’t he always ready to condescend to be entertained? And I got him to promise easy enough to come in to supper after his royal parents had gone to bed. And then I wrote a line to my Lady and asked her permission to bring the Prince, and by the same token I told her about your fine scheme of counterfeit. Sure, I knew my Lady could be trusted to deal with that.” “Denis,” said Kitty. “There was an infamous note I sent you on pink paper. Have you got it about you?” He gave her a grim look, inserted two fingers into his waistcoat pocket, and drew it forth. “Give it back to me, my dear love.” “Why, I was thinking ’twouldn’t be a bad token for me to keep about me, lest I should be meeting some sorrowful young creature that wanted comforting on a parade----” “Oh, my Lord, don’t mock me.” She twitched it from his hand and began to tear it into a hundred shreds. Then, between laughing and crying, she gathered in her turn a little note from her bosom. “’Tis you that are generous, ’tis you that are forgiving, my Lord. How could I keep up petty malice, Mr. Stafford when my Denis had treated me so gallant? This letter,” cried Kitty, kissing it, “shall be my treasure till I die.” CHAPTER XV IN WHICH THE MAD BRAT TAKES THE BIT BETWEEN HER TEETH, BUT MISS PAMELA POUNCE KEEPS HOLD OF THE REINS The first stage between Weymouth and London brought Miss Pamela Pounce to Blandford where she intended to pass the night. She had spent an agreeable and lucrative week at Weymouth, whither the presence of Royalty had brought a host of fashionables, and where it had been easy for her to dispose of all the modish hats and heads, caps and toques which she had selected to tempt holiday appetites. With a light conscience and heavy pockets, therefore, Pamela was setting off for London in finest spirits. She had brought more than her usual zest to this journey who always enjoyed travelling to the full; the movement, the change of scene, the bustle at arrival and departure, the choice of the night’s lodging, the chance adventure, the shifting company, all stimulated, interested, delighted her. She could take care of herself, and had no fear, either of the rare highwayman, or of the intrusive gallant. The “Rover” deposited its burden with a fine flourish of horn and whip and clatter of hoofs, tick on time, in the cobbled courtyard of the Crown Inn at Blandford.