Benjulia went on with his smoking. The cook, thus far demure and downcast, lifted her eyes experimentally. He was still looking at her. Did he want encouragement? The cook cautiously offered a little literary information,
“The author’s name is on the book, sir. Name of Richardson.”
The information was graciously received, “Yes; I’ve heard of the name, and heard of the book. Is it interesting?”
“Oh, sir, it’s a beautiful story! My only excuse for being late with the dinner—”
“Who’s Pamela?”
“A young person in service, sir. I’m sure I wish I was more like her! I felt quite broken-hearted when you sent the mutton down again; and you so kind as to overlook the error in the roasting—”
Benjulia stopped the apology once more. He pursued his own ends with a penitent cook, just as he pursued his own ends with a vivisected animal. Nothing moved him out of his appointed course, in the one or in the other. He returned to Pamela.
“And what becomes of her at the end of the story?” he asked.
The cook simpered. “It’s Pamela who is the virtuous young person, sir. And so the story comes true—Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded.”
“Who rewards her?”