"Do I love you?" repeats the Spawer, with a look of incredulous surprise, and a tinge, in his tones, of severity. "What a remarkable question to ask a man—and at such short notice! Really, Miss Searle ... I must confess you surprise me."
"Oh, but do you, do you?" begs Pam.
"Well, it 's dreadfully, horribly sudden," says Maurice. "And you put me quite in a flutter. But since you 're rather an attractive girl ... well, yes, I do."
"Oh, but suppose ... suppose..." says Pam, going on....
"Yes, little riddle-me-ree?"
"Suppose ... suppose I was n't what you 've always thought me. Suppose it were found that ... I was n't a lady at all. Suppose I was somebody altogether different from what Father Mostyn said I was."
Sundry speculative shadows rise up in the Spawer's mind, but he is not dismayed, and feels no flinching.
"Well?" says he encouragingly. "And suppose you were?"
"Would it make no difference?" Pam asks tremulously, it must be confessed, for oh ... if now it should!
"Darling," says the Spawer firmly, "not the least little bit."