Sir George looked at her as if he were studying her appearance. Then,
'Yes, child, it does,' he said.
She hesitated, but seemed to make up her mind. 'I have never asked you
where you live,' she said softly; 'have you no house in the country?' He suppressed something between an oath and a groan. 'Yes,' he said, 'I
have a house.' 'What do you call it?' 'Estcombe Hall. It is in Wiltshire, not far from here.' She looked at her fan, and idly flapped it open, and again closed it in
the air. 'Is it a fine place?' she said carelessly.
'I suppose so,' he answered, wincing.
'With trees, and gardens, and woods?' 'Yes.' 'And water?' 'Yes. There is a river.' 'You used to fish in it as a boy?' 'Yes.' 'Estcombe! it is a pretty name. And shall you lose it?' But that was too much for Soane's equanimity. 'Oh, d--n the girl!' he
cried, rising abruptly, but sitting down again. Then, as she recoiled,
in anger real or affected, 'I beg your pardon,' he said formally.
'But--it is not the custom to ask so many questions upon
private matters.' 'Really, Sir George?' she said, receiving the information gravely, and
raising her eyebrows. 'Then Estcombe is your Mr. Dunborough, is it?' 'If you will,' he said, almost sullenly.
'But you love it,' she answered, studying her fan, 'and I do not
love--Mr. Dunborough!' Marvelling at her coolness and the nimbleness of her wit, he turned so
that he looked her full in the face. 'Miss Masterson,' he said, 'you are
too clever for me. Will you tell me where you learned so much? 'Fore
Gad, you might have been at Mrs. Chapone's, the way you talk.' 'Mrs. Chapone's?' she said.
'A learned lady,' he explained.
'I was at a school,' she answered simply, 'until I was fifteen. A
godfather, whom I never knew, left money to my father to be spent on my
schooling.' 'Lord!' he said. 'And where were you at school?' 'At Worcester.' 'And what have you done since?--if I may ask.' 'I have been at home. I should have taught children, or gone into
service as a waiting-woman; but my father would keep me with him. Now I
am glad of it, as this money has come to me.' 'Lord! it is a perfect romance!' he exclaimed. And on the instant he
fancied that he had the key to the mystery, and her beauty. She was
illegitimate--a rich man's child! 'Gad, Mr. Richardson should hear of
it,' he continued with more than his usual energy. 'Pamela--why you
might be Pamela!' 'That if you please,' she said quickly, 'for certainly I shall never be
Clarissa.' Sir George laughed. 'With such charms it is better not to be too sure!'
he answered. And he looked at her furtively and looked away again. A
coach bound eastwards came out of the gates; but it had little of his
attention, though he seemed to be watching the bustle. He was thinking
that if he sat much longer with this strange girl, he was a lost man.
And then again he thought--what did it matter? If the best he had to
expect was exile on a pittance, a consulship at Genoa, a governorship at
Guadeloupe, where would he find a more beautiful, a wittier, a gayer
companion? And for her birth--a fico! His great-grandfather had made
money in stays; and the money was gone! No doubt there would be gibing
at White's, and shrugging at Almack's; but a fico, too, for that--it
would not hurt him at Guadeloupe, and little at Genoa. And then on a
sudden the fortune of which she had talked came into his head, and he
smiled. It might be a thousand; or two, three, four, at most five
thousand. A fortune! He smiled and looked at her.