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Now, Pamela, said my master, taking my hand, don't let a little wrong-timed bashfulness take place, without any other reason, because I should be glad to go to Bedfordshire as soon as I could; and I would not return till I carry my servants there a mistress, who should assist me to repair the mischiefs she has made in it. I could not look up for confusion.
"I am really not well enough to go to dinner-parties, Conrad," she said, when her husband politely argued against her refusal of an invitation, with just that mild entreaty which too plainly means, "I don't care a jot whether you go with me or stay at home." "But, my dear Pamela, a little gaiety would give you a fillip." "No, it would not, Conrad.
Surely, sir, said I, I am of no consequence equal to this, in your honour's family, that such a great gentleman as you, should need to justify yourself about me. I am glad Mrs. Jervis stays with your honour; and I know I have not deserved to stay: and, more than that, I don't desire to stay. Ads-bobbers! said Mr. Longman, and ran to me; don't say so, don't say so, dear Mrs. Pamela!
But I would rather trust myself on the top of a wobbly step-ladder than up the sides of most horses. I am not quite of a mind, however, with Samuel Richardson who owned a hobby-horse and rode on his hearth-rug in the intervals of writing "Pamela."
Pamela lifted up her tear-swollen face and drew herself out of Duke's arms, to fling herself into Diana's. "If us is going to die, it's no good eating," she said. "Who said you was a-going to die?" exclaimed the gipsy girl. "Duke and I was talking, and us thought p'raps heaven was the nice place you said us'd go to if us was good," replied Pamela.
And though I went to bed, I could not rest; but about two got up, and made Thomas get one of the best horses ready, in order to set out to overtake you, while I sat down to write this to you. 'Now, my dear Pamela, let me beg of you, on the receipt of this, to order Robin to drive you back again to my house.
And presently she found herself pouring out her troubled thoughts about David, about the lions that she feared stood in his path at Oxford, about the hole his going made in the little household at The Rigs. It was a comfort to tell it all to this delightful-looking stranger who seemed to understand in the most wonderful way. "I remember when my brother Biddy went to Oxford," Pamela told her.
She would say that when she had caught Mrs. Hilary in a mistake. It's not out yet; I've only seen Gilbert's review copy," and Mrs. Hilary would say, "In that case I suppose I am thinking of another book," and Rosalind would say to Neville or Pamela or Gilbert or Nan, "Your darling mother.
"Pamela in your book is a 'creature," she replied unsatisfactorily. Shortly after this the game came somehow to an end. I do not understand the intricacies of croquet. But Phyllis did something brilliant and remarkable with the balls, and we adjourned for tea. The sun was setting as I left to return to the farm, with Aunt Elizabeth stored neatly in a basket in my hand.
"I was so afraid of it," she regretted as she waved her adieux. . . . . An hour or so later the city broke before them in murky waves. Pamela, who had been leaning back in the car, deep in thought, sat up. "You are a perfect dear, James," she said. "Do you think you could stand having Mr. Fischer to dinner one evening this week?" "Sure!" he replied, a little curiously.
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