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:
“My name is Pamela Pounce, sir. If you will inquire for me, care of my aunt, Miss Lydia Pounce, own woman to my Lady Kilcroney, ’twill be the safest address.”
He gave her a quaint look, bowed profoundly, and hurried away.
“The safest address,” he murmured, as he went. “Ah, Pamela, you’re one of the wise virgins!”
Then he laughed.
“Farce did I call it? And I set for the blackest tragedy! Nay, ’tis a mighty delicate comedy, and we’re but at the first act of it.”
Pamela stood gazing after the retreating figure.