“Then I have just come in time,” he said.
“Let me give you some tea; sit down,” she said, and gently tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly.
“Never mind the tea, Lady Grace,” he said, with something of his old light-heartedness. “You shall give me—or refuse me—a cup after you have heard what I have to say.”
“And what have you to say that is more important than tea?” she retorted, in a light tone, which was belied by the quiver on her lips.
“I have come to ask you to be my wife,” he said, quietly.
She put her left hand to her bosom, and her beautiful eyes dilated. If joy always killed, then Lady Grace would have fallen dead at Cecil Neville’s feet that moment; but it is sorrow, not joy, that kills, and instead of falling, she leaned towards him with a tremulous sigh. It was almost too good to be believed! Spenser Churchill had told her that it would come, but she had always doubted it; and now—it had come! He was hers. Hers!—he, whom she had grown to love—the man for whom she had plotted and risked so much, even her social good name—was hers!
It was a proud, an ecstatic moment; no wonder she prolonged it.
“What do you say?” he asked, still holding her hand, his grave voice as much unlike an ardent lover’s as it is possible to imagine; and yet it was like music to her! “I know I am not worthy to win so great a prize, but I will do my best to make you happy.”
“And—and you love me?” she asked.
It was a dangerous question, but she was a woman, and longed to hear the magic words which every woman loves to hear from the lips of the man she loves.