“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.”