‘Ah, my lord, why do you take my hand again?’
‘Did I, Phroso? Because, Phroso, the lady who waits over the sea—it’s a charmingly poetic phrase, upon my word!’
‘You laugh!’ murmured Phroso, in aggrieved protest and wonder.
‘Did I really laugh, Phroso? Well, I’m happy, so I may laugh.’
‘Happy?’ she whispered; then at last her eyes were drawn to mine in mingled hope and anguish of questioning.
‘The lady who waited over the sea,’ said I, ‘waits no longer, Phroso.’
The wonderful eyes grew more wonderful in their amazed widening; and Phroso, laying a hand gently on my arm, said:
‘She waits no longer? My lord, she is dead?’
This confident inference was extremely flattering. There was evidently but one thing which could end the patient waiting of the lady who waited.
‘On the contrary she thinks that I am. Constantine spread news of my death.’