He was cantering over the turf thirty or forty yards from the road when the omnibus passed him. The driver cried his name, and pointed back with his whip. Grantley saw Sibylla a long way behind. He touched his horse with the spur, and galloped towards her. Now she stood still, waiting for him. He came up to her at full speed, reined in, and leapt off. Holding his bridle and his hat in one hand, with the other he took hers, and, bowing over it, kissed it. His whole approach was gallantly conceived and carried out.
"Ah, you—you come to me like Sir Galahad!" murmured Sibylla.
"My dear, Sir Galahad! A banker, Sir Galahad!"
"Well, do bankers kiss the hands of paupers?"
"Bankers of love would kiss the hands of its millionaires."
"And am I a millionaire of love?"
Grantley let go her hand and joined in her laugh at their little bout of conceits. She carried it on, but merrily now, not in the almost painful strain of delight which had made her first greeting sound half-choked.
"Haven't I given it all to you—to a dishonest banker, who'll never let me have it back?"
"We pay interest on large accounts," Grantley reminded her.
"You'll pay large, large interest to me?"