She came up to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Suffer me a little while, my lord,” she said. “You’ve swept into my life like a whirlwind; you would carry me by assault as though I were a rebellious city. Am I to be won before ever I am wooed?”
“You sha’n’t lack wooing,” he said quickly. “Yet haven’t I wooed you already—as well in my quarrel as in my homage, in our strife as in the end of it?”
“I think so, yes. Yet suffer me a little still.”
“If you doubt——” he cried.
“I don’t think I doubt. I linger.” She gave her hand into his. “It’s strange, but I cannot doubt.”
Lynborough sank again upon his knee and paid his homage. As he rose, she bent ever so slightly towards him; delicately he kissed her cheek.
“I pray you,” she whispered, “use gently what you took with that.”
“Here’s a heart to my heart, and a spirit to my spirit—and a glad venture to us both!”
“Come on to the lawn now, but tell them nothing.”
“Save that I have paid my homage, and received the recognition of my right?”