"What! And leave me here to work my wicked will? Reflect—reflect. I thought you were going to mount guard here all day. Think on all the sins I shall be committing in your absence."
She has left her hands in his all this time, and is regarding him with a gay smile, under which she hardly hides a good deal of offended pride.
"Don't be rash, I pray you," she says, with a gleam of malice.
"The man who said pretty women were at heart the kindest lied," says Sir Penthony, standing over her, tall, and young, and very nearly handsome. "You know I am in misery all this time, and that a word from you would relieve me,—yet you will not speak it."
"Would you"—very gravely—"credit the word of such a sinner as you would make me out to be?"
"A sinner! Surely I have never called you that."
"You would call me anything when you get into one of those horrid passions. Come, are you sorry?"
"I am more than sorry. I confess myself a brute if I ever even hinted at such a word,—which I doubt. The most I feared was your imprudence."
"From all I can gather, that means quite the same thing when said of a woman."
"Well, I don't mean it as the same. And, to prove my words, if you will only grant me forgiveness, I will not even mention Tedcastle's name again."