Six of the clock had just been huskily beaten out behind the great white dial that surmounted the celebrated stables. The jolly coachman turned half round in his seat, and winked at the gentleman in the many-caped roquelaure who had entertained him with such racy gossip for five hours that day, and who had not failed moreover, to season their conversation with a brimmer at every halting place. “What do you think o’ that for punctuality, my Lord?” Now “my Lord” was a mere fluke--shot at quality, but for once it had hit the bull’s eye. The traveller, descending with care from the coach (for the last tankard had been tightly laced and required some carrying) was nearly run into by a brisk young lady in a grey riding coat, and black satin hat, who exclaimed genteelly: “To be sure, sir, I crave your pardon!” And then cried: “My Lord Kilcroney, is it indeed you!” “Why, ’tis never Miss Pounce!” exclaimed my Lord, surveying her, as if the last thing wanting to his joviality had now been granted him by Fate. And, indeed, not only was Pamela Pounce vastly pleasing to look upon--she had something of the firmness, the clear red-and-white and the general appetising appearance of a white-heart cherry--but she was vastly agreeable company too, as he had found out on more than one occasion. Added to which, she had recently done him a very good turn with his lady, as sometimes comes in the way of milliners and such like who collect back-door gossip, and exercise back-door influence. Withal, which certainly spoilt nothing, she was a young person of merit; virtuous, responsible, and discreet. My Lord knew that she would take at their proper value any little compliment or other expression of esteem, such as the squeeze of a trim waist, an absent-minded clasp of taper fingers, even a snatched kiss. He might get a box on the ear; he would never be treated either to outraged sensibility, or--still more inconvenient contingency--an undesired responsiveness. He held Miss Pounce’s hand, and smiled down into her bright face with something approaching enthusiasm. “Split me, my dear, but this is a piece of good luck. And I who thought I’d be all at my lonesome over----” he stopped, and sniffed. “What is it?--the beef-steak pudding, and the roast capons to-night. I invite you to supper with me, Pamela. I sent my rascal ahead to bespeak the little oak parlour on the garden, and----” “Thanking you kindly, my Lord,” said Miss Pounce, disengaging her hand, and speaking with great firmness, “I dine with no gentleman in the back parlour.” His merry face fell. “How now, so prudish?” “Nay, my Lord, merely prudent. ’Tis as much as my reputation is worth. The ladies wouldn’t like it. No, nor the landladies. The common room is best for a common working girl like me.” “My dear,” said Lord Kilcroney, “’tis an uncommon girl you are. You’re in the right of it a thousand times. Faith, my Lady would be ready to tear the wig from my head if she heard of it!”