“I dreamt last night, three times over, that I tossed a double six at tric-trac, and ’tis the sixteenth of July and I am twenty-six. My Lord Sanquhar promised to give me my revenge at the Six Bells at six of the clock. ’Twas such a conjunction of luck as could not fail. I would have won back my I.O.U.’s. I would have returned my Lady Kilcroney the passage money to India. She wants to ship me to India, my dear, the inconvenient poor relation. Ah, she need not fear. I shall beg from her no more. What a farce it has all been! ’Tis time to put an end to it. Bless you for your sweet looks, my pretty child. Think of me only as one who, after life’s fitful fever, sleeps well. Aha! I shall sleep better I dare say, than my Lady Kilcroney when she has read the letter I sent to her anon!” “One moment, Mr. Bellairs, since that’s your name,” said Pamela Pounce, with her wide, lovely smile. She dived into her reticule, and began to gather the coins together with counting digits. “If you’ll condescend to borrow of a person who goes in by the area gates, here are thirteen sovereigns at your service. I’ve just had a long bill paid me. And, oh,” cried Pamela, suddenly and unexpectedly bursting into tears, “I wish they were three hundred!” “Gracious heavens!” said the young gentleman. “If you don’t take them I’ll never know another happy moment,” sobbed Pamela. “Oh, how could I? Oh, sir, don’t say ‘No,’ because I am just a poor girl.” “Nay then. I won’t say ‘No.’ Upon my soul, I don’t care if you go in at the coal hole, you’ve the finest spirit and the prettiest face, ay, and the warmest heart I’ve ever met in woman.” He held out his hand, and she put the money into it. He hesitated then, and looked at her; and perhaps because of some warning that flashed through her wet eyes, or perhaps because of some innate spring of good breeding in him, he only kissed the hand that had been strong to save him. “Pray, what o’clock is it?” He struck his waistcoat, where a black ribbon made pretence for a missing watch. “My time piece has gone the way of most of my possessions.” “’Tis past five,” she said, “by the shadows.” The country girl had not forgotten her lore. “Past five,” cried he, “and I due at the Six Bells! If you will move a step, my dear, I will pick up my hat.” “Allow me, sir,” said she. “Hats are my business.” She lifted the felt from the grass, dusted it with her arm, pushed out the dent where he had kicked it, and gave each corner a perfectly unnecessary twist. “I’m in the millinery,” said she, as she handed it to him. “I thought there was something remarkably elegant about your headgear,” he observed. “And pray oblige me with your address, that I may know where to return my loan, for the conviction grows in me that I am destined to win and to live.” She knew that sense of victory; it was akin to the conviction of her own confident soul; but while she smiled she pondered. Then she said demurely: