At that homely speech, and that impulsive movement, Kenelm halted, in a sort of dreaming maze. He turned timidly, "Can you forgive me for my rude words? I presumed to find fault with you."
"And so justly. I have been thinking over all you said, and I feel you were so right; only I still do not quite understand what you meant by the quality for mortals which the fairy did not give to her changeling."
"If I did not dare say it before, I should still less dare to say it now."
"Do." There was no longer the stamp of the foot, no longer the flash from her eyes, no longer the wilfulness which said, "I insist;"—" Do;" soothingly, sweetly, imploringly.
Thus pushed to it, Kenelm plucked up courage, and not trusting himself to look at Lily, answered brusquely,—
"The quality desirable for men, but more essential to women in proportion as they are fairy-like, though the tritest thing possible, is good temper."
Lily made a sudden bound from his side, and joined her aunt, walking through the wet grass.
When they reached the garden-gate, Kenelm advanced and opened it.
Lily passed him by haughtily; they gained the cottage-door.
"I don't ask you in at this hour," said Mrs. Cameron. "It would be but a false compliment."
Kenelm bowed and retreated. Lily left her aunt's side, and came towards him, extending her hand.