"What is it?" asks he, a little—just a very little—disconcerted.
"Oh, nothing; nothing, really. Only it does seem so funny to think I have got a husband," she says, in a choked whisper, and then her mirth gets beyond her control, and, but that Brian presses her head down on his chest, and so stifles it, they might have had Miss Fitzgerald out upon them in ten seconds.
"Hush!" whispers the embryo husband, giving her a little shake. But he is laughing, too.
"I don't feel as if I honored you a bit," says Miss Beresford; "and as to the 'obey,' I certainly shan't do that."
"As if I should ask you!" says Desmond. "But what of the love, sweetheart?"
"Why, as it is yours, you ought to be the one to answer that question," retorts she, prettily, a warm flush dyeing her face.
"But why must you leave me?" she says, presently.
"The steward has written to me once or twice. Tenants nowadays are so troublesome. Of course I could let the whole thing slide, and the property go to the dogs; but no man has a right to do that. I am talking of my own place now, you understand,—yours, as it will be soon, I hope."
"And where is—our place?"
The hesitation is adorable, but still more adorable are the smile and blush that accompany it.