"Nay, my lord," she murmured, confused, "that Your Grace should think of such follies!"
"Yet, when you look at me," he said, "I think of worse follies still."
"Women say that there is no worse folly than to listen to His Grace of Wessex."
"Do you think they are right?"
"How can I tell?"
"By listening to me for half an hour."
"Here, in this garden?"
"No! . . . there! . . . by the river. . . ."
And he pointed beyond the enclosure of the garden, there where the soft evening breeze gently stirred the rushes in the stream.
"Oh! . . . what would everybody say?" she exclaimed in mock alarm.