“His name, his name!” she gasped.
“Lud, now!” The girl clacked her tongue. “I did hear her call him——”
“Stay!” cried Pamela. “Was it Bellairs?”
“Lud, Miss,” cried the girl, “however did you know?”
“Because,” said Miss Pounce sternly, “I am the lady he came to meet.”
With the same deadly composure she ordered a post-chaise, and started once again in pursuit. This time she would have no man’s help. She would go alone. “What business is it of yours?” had cried Lady Selina insolently, last night. And she had answered: “It’s every true woman’s business to keep another straight if she can.” But now, here was no altruistic interference; here love and life were at stake for her. Here was her own business and nobody else’s, with a vengeance!
Gone this hour! Well, she would overtake them at Basingstoke, where they must halt of a certainty.
Pamela had had, in a little purse apart, twenty golden guineas, her own profit in the successful week’s transactions in modes at Weymouth. She had meant to add them to the comfortable nest of savings which were to facilitate her marriage with her charming spendthrift. Now the shining company in the green silk meshes had already notably dwindled; and at every five miles or so, Pamela would draw forth a coin and, thrusting her pretty head out of the window, would hail the post-boy and hold it up to his sight.
“Another goldfinch for you, my lad, if you mend your speed!”