My lord Tony was never very glib of tongue. That peculiar dignified shyness which is one of the chief characteristics of well-bred Englishmen caused him to be tongue-tied when he had most to say. It was just with gesture and an appealing pressure of his hand upon her arm that he persuaded Yvonne de Kernogan to sit down beside him on the sofa in the remotest and darkest corner of the recess, and there she remained beside him silent and grave for a moment or two, and stole timid glances from time to time through the veil of her lashes at the finely-chiselled, expressive face of her young English lover.
He was pining to put a question to her, and so great was his excitement that his tongue refused him service, and she, knowing what was hovering on his lips, would not help him out, but a humorous twinkle in her dark eyes, and a faint smile round her lips lit up the habitual seriousness of her young face.
"Mademoiselle ..." he managed to stammer at last. "Mademoiselle Yvonne ... you have seen Lady Blakeney?"
"Yes," she replied demurely, "I have seen Lady Blakeney."
"And ... and ... she told you?"
"Yes. Lady Blakeney told me many things."
"She told you that ... that.... In God's name, Mademoiselle Yvonne," he added desperately, "do help me out—it is cruel to tease me! Can't you see that I'm nearly crazy with anxiety?"
Then she looked up at him, her dark eyes glowing and brilliant, her face shining with the light of a great tenderness.
"Nay, milor," she said earnestly, "I had no wish to tease you. But you will own 'tis a grave and serious step which Lady Blakeney suggested that I should take. I have had no time to think ... as yet."
"But there is no time for thinking, Mademoiselle Yvonne," he said naïvely. "If you will consent.... Oh! you will consent, will you not?" he pleaded.