“Won’t you believe I want to make a lady of you?”
“No.”
“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.”