“Ah, but I did not promise you that! Say out, or keep silence, it matters nothing to me.”
“I begin to believe what I have heard,” he exclaimed hoarsely.
Her eye flashed lightning at his image in the glass.
“Indeed, my Lord? And that again leaves me indifferent.”
But as she spoke she turned round on her chair. What a marvel of loveliness she was, thought the milliner. ’Twas but natural any poor young gentleman that loved her should be distraught upon her. He gazed on her wildly, then broke out, clasping his hands:
“Nay,” he cried. “I will not believe it. I will not believe it, unless you tell me yourself. Felicity, my father is dead. I am my own master. Look at me. Behold this black. I came straight—yes, I am not ashamed of it—straight from the closing of my father’s grave to offer you my hand and name.”
He paused.
“I ought, no doubt, to be overwhelmed at your generosity. A month ago you were no less ardent, if I remember right, in pressing a different proposition,” she said very quietly.
Pamela’s heart quickened in passionate sympathy. What a world was this for poor girls!
“It’s not possible,” the young gentleman cried, “that you will carry rancour so far! A month ago I was not a free agent; a month ago I—oh, confusion! You cannot have understood. I—Miss Falcon, I am now Earl Ashmore, and I ask you to become my countess. This is a question of marriage. You cannot thus lightly dismiss so honourable, so respectful an offer!”