"Well, Margaret?"
He could find at that moment nothing more sensible to say. He was engaged watching the light of her eyes, and the colour come and go on her cheek.
"What is that in your hand?" said she.
"A letter."
"Ah, that's what you brought me here for! A letter! For me! Give it to me!" She held out her little hand eagerly.
He withheld the letter from her.
"It is not for you."
"O, indeed!"
She tore her fingers from his grasp, for he had taken them and was kissing them.
"But you may read it," he said ruefully.