"Oh, the fly's not come back?" she cried.
"Perhaps there's still a chance for one of us."
She caught him by the arm. "Listen! Is it stopping? No! It must be past the house!"
"Do you want it to stop?" he asked.
She turned her eyes on him; he saw them gleam through the darkness. He saw her lips just move; he heard no more than the lingering fear, the passionate reproach, of her murmured exclamation, "Oh, Harry!"
The next instant a voice rang out in the night, loud, mellow, and buoyant. They listened as it sang, its notes dominating the sound of the wheels and seeming to fill the air around them, growing louder as the wheels came near, sinking again as they passed on the road to Mingham:
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine:
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine:—"
Gradually, melodiously, and happily the voice died away in the distance, and silence came. Harry drew his love to him.
"Dear old Bob Broadley!" said he softly. "He's driving back from Fairholme, and he seems most particularly jolly."
"Yes," she murmured. Then she broke into a low, merry, triumphant laugh. "I don't see why he should be so particularly jolly." She pressed his hand hard, laughing again. "He's only engaged," she whispered. "But we're married, aren't we, Harry?"