He let go her hand and reeled back a step.
"Mine? What do you mean?" she cried. Still the idea, the wild idea, that he offered it with himself was in her mind.
"It's yours, not mine—it's never been mine. You're the owner of it. You're Tristram of Blent."
"I—I Tristram of Blent?" She was utterly bewildered. For he was not a lover—no lover ever spoke like that.
"Yes, I say, yes." His voice rose imperiously as it pronounced the words that threw away his rule. "You're Lady Tristram of Blent."
She did not understand; yet she believed. He spoke so that he must be believed.
"This is all yours—yours—yours. You're Tristram of Blent."
She rose to her height, and stood facing him.
"And you? And you?"