"Shall I ask it, Marian? I have asked it too often before."
He is holding her arms very tightly now, and his eyes are bent on hers. Once again he is under the spell of her beauty.
"Ask—ask what you will!" cries she. She laughs gaily, and throws back her head. The last rays of the sunlight catch her hair, and lift it to a very glory round her beautiful face. "Go on, go on," she says lightly. There is, perhaps, some defiance in her tone, but, if so, it only strengthens her for the fight. "I am your captive!" She gives a little expressive downward glance at his hands, as he holds her arms. "Speak, my lord! and your slave answers." She has thrown some mockery into her tone.
"I am not your lord," says Rylton. He drops her arms, and lets her go, and stands well back from her. "That is the last part assigned to me."
Mrs. Bethune's gaze grows concentrated. It is fixed on him. What does he mean? What is the object of this flat rebellion—this receding from her authority? Strength is hers, as well as charm, and she comes to the front bravely.
"Now what is it?" asks she, creeping up to him again, and now slipping her arm around his neck. "How have I vexed you? Who has been saying nasty little things about me? The dear mother, eh?"
"I want no one to tell me anything, but you."
"Speak, then; did I not tell you I should answer?"
"I want an answer to one question, and one only," says Rylton slowly.
"That is modesty itself."