"And that, too, was for Barbara," she murmured softly.
"Even so. She has required much of us, has she not?" he continued, smiling. "Yet whoso is greatly loved, to her must much be given."
"And you do not regret it?"
"Regret, madame?"
"It hath cost you much."
"Maybe, but it has won me more." Then he added, half to himself, "For whatsoever befall me now, in this world or the next, I have at least had my hour of heaven."
There was a silence, broken only by Barbara's voice, singing in the room above.
Cicely rose to her feet.
"She is coming, we must go to supper."
Then she turned and laid her hand upon his arm—"You have been so good to me, Captain Protheroe," she said gently. "And what I may do in return, I gladly will. You love Barbara! Ah! I could tell you so much, so much, for who knows so well as a woman how women may be wooed. Could a man but have that knowledge, he might win every maid in Christendom. Therefore"—she smiled—"perchance 'tis better withheld. And for this present matter—certes! methinks you are doing very fairly well for yourself. Only remember 'Woman loveth a bold wooer.' Let there be no despair. More love is lost by want of hope than ever was won by diffidence."