His passionate energy swept her along, carried her away, and she burst into tears.
"I don't know. Oh, I don't know," was all she could say; and his arms were round her.
"My own! My Doris!"
"Oh, don't! Please don't! It is so hard. I can't tell what mother will say. And—there is Mr. Stirling."
"He is only a friend. He has no real authority over me." Maurice laughed joyously, holding her fast. "My own! My own!" he repeated, with a radiance of delight which infected her and bore her, metaphorically, off her feet. It was like being carried along on a whirlwind. "I am of an age to decide for myself. And you—my darling—"
"If—mother—" she faltered. "But I'm afraid—I'm afraid—she won't—"
"Don't be afraid. Why should you? Now we know that we love, all else is nothing. We may face the world without a doubt."
This was all very well; but he did not know Mrs. Winton.
"Even if obstacles do arise, it will only be for a time. You are mine now—mine absolutely. While you and I are true one to another, nothing can finally separate us."
He had his way. He had won a confession of her love; and his ardour awoke a reflection in her. For the moment, doubts were mastered, and she consented to put them aside, to yield herself to him. Nothing—just then!—seemed of importance, beyond the fact that each loved the other.