“Jethro!” She looked alarmed, and seemed to strain her ears for outside sounds.
“Queer name. Jethro—what?”
“Jayne.”
“Jethro Jayne! He ought to be the villain in a melodrama—wicked squire or something of that sort. And are you going to marry him, Pam?”
She caught her hands across her breast theatrically.
“I—I don’t know. You have changed everything.”
“Not at all. I’ll free you. I’m not”—he gave his soft, callous laugh—“in a position to keep a wife, and he is. As Mrs. Jethro Jayne you might be very useful to me.”
“As Mrs. Jethro Jayne I dare not look at you.”
“Pooh! You were always too intense. Marry him and help me. That would be the act of a sensible woman. You are quite free.”
“Absolutely free,” she assented dreamily, looking a little wildly at the handsome face.