"And yet there was somebody!" She pouted her lips at him, glancing up into his face for half a second, and then again hung her head down. "Mary, do not grudge me my delight."
"No;—no;—no!"
"But you do."
"No. If there can be delight to you in so poor a thing, have it all."
"Then you must kiss me, dear." She gently came to him,—oh so gently,—and with her head still hanging, creeping towards his shoulder, thinking perhaps that the motion should have been his, but still obeying him, and then, leaning against him, seemed as though she would stoop with her lips to his hand. But this he did not endure. Seizing her quickly in his arms he drew her up, till her not unwilling face was close to his, and there he kept her till she was almost frightened by his violence. "And now, Mary, what do you say to my question? It has to be answered."
"You know."
"But that will not do, I will have it in words. I will not be shorn of my delight."
That it should be a delight to him, was the very essence of her heaven. "Tell me what to say," she answered. "How may I say it best?"
"Reginald Morton," he began.
"Reginald," she repeated it after him, but went no farther in naming him.