“Well, then, the mere sight of that handsome face of yours this morning has made me mad in love with you. Will you believe that?” “Neither the one nor the other, sir. You see,” she went on, “I am not kicking nor screaming, I am in your power, and I can’t help myself. I think you’d find it better for yourself, sir, and better for me, if you’d tell me the truth.” Her quiet tone, the perfect composure of her face, very pale and lovely in the moonlight as she turned it upon him, struck some faint spark of generosity. “By Heaven!” said he admiringly. “You’re a well-plucked one. The truth you want. Split me, ’tis all true! But you’re right, there’s yet another reason. I want to win a wager, my little darling!” “What wager, sir?” “You.” He grinned at her. “That spark of yours--he is a spark of yours, ain’t he?--that fine young fellow, Jocelyn Bellairs, he wagered you were too virtuous for a man to have a chance with. But I wagered him you wasn’t. Come now, you’re a good-hearted piece. Help me to win my wager, and I’ll make it worth your while.” Pamela reflected profoundly. Then she gave a little laugh. “Why, Sir Jasper!” she exclaimed. “What sad, wild creatures you gentlemen are! It comes to this, then. I’ve got to make the best of a bad job.” Then she swallowed hard, and said, with a still more sprightly air, “You’ll give me a bit of supper at Ashford, I suppose, for I’m mortal hungry.” He broke into hoarse laughter, and cried again that, by Heaven, she was a well-plucked one, and they’d get on first class; that she should have the finest supper the Bear Inn could afford. If she’d stand by him, by Jingo, he’d stand by her. There wasn’t a gentleman in England who’d be such a friend to the woman who trusted him as he would be to her. When they arrived at Ashford, she demanded, with a sudden air of command, which became her, he thought, mightily, and tickled his already high good humour to positive hilarity, that she should be brought to a sitting-room and partake of the meal in privacy while the post-chaise was being got ready. “And,” quoth she, “let it be champagne, Sir Jasper, since”--she gave him a wide, taunting smile--“’tis to be made worth my while.” He flung an arm about her the moment the waiter had withdrawn; she freed herself with a vigorous thrust, but as she did so, she laughed. “Nay, drink your sillery, sir. Aye, pour me a glass. Oh, aye, I’ll drink any toast you like. Have you not said it yourself? I’m the best-natured girl in the world--so long as you keep your place, sir. Why, ’tis the finest pigeon-pie I’ve tasted since Paris. You know I was in Paris, Sir Jasper?” Sir Jasper chuckled, winking at her. Her fingers clenched round her knife, the while her smile would not have misbefitted the lips of a Bacchante. “And will you bring me to the opera, Sir Jasper? Oh, and to Ranelagh? Oh, to think of me going to Ranelagh on a gentleman’s arm, like a lady!”