"You are mine—my own," he whispered, "until death; say so, Beatrice."
"I am yours," she said, "even in death."
It was a stolen half hour, but so full of happiness that it could never fade from memory.
"I must go," said Beatrice, at length, unclasping the firm hand that held her own. "Oh, Lord Airlie, how am I to meet all my friends? Why did you not wait until tomorrow?"
"I could not," he said; "and you perhaps would not then have been so kind."
He loved her all the more for her simplicity. As they left the garden, Lord Airlie gathered a white rose and gave it to Beatrice. Long afterward, when the leaves had become yellow and dry, the rose was found.
They remained in the conservatory a few minutes, and then went back to the ball room.
"Every waltz must be mine now," said Lord Airlie. "And, Beatrice, I shall speak to Lord Earle tonight. Are you willing?"
Yes, she was willing. It was very pleasant to be taken possession of so completely. It was pleasant to find a will stronger than her own. She did not care how soon all the world knew that she loved him. The only thing she wondered at was why he should be so unspeakably happy.