“You shall ask him. He’ll be down anon to greet his landlady.”
“Let him lie on, for me. It’s only you I want; and a tongue to say ten thousand things at once. Where have you come from?”
“Le Prieuré.”
“That takes—let me see—how long?”
“It took me a month.”
“A month!”
“I came on foot; I loitered by the road; I had ten thousand things, not to say, but ponder.”
“Cherry!”
She looked at him amazed. A shadow of some sick foreboding would not leave her heart. She had never yet known him, her “gentleman,” her fond heart’s tyrant, in this strangely sober mood.
“Go on,” she whispered. “Won’t you tell me?”