"To keep yourself alive for my sake." He drew her to him, and for a moment they clung to each other, heart to heart. Then again he laughed.
"Well, I'll do my best," said he.
Agatha glanced past him. She was now rewarding herself for her virtuous abstinence on her entrance. She was examining the room.
"What a lovely little room!" said she.
Dillwyn coloured.
"No, no, you must not look at it," said he, taking her face between both his hands and hiding her eyes against his breast.
"But I must—I must indeed." She drew herself free from him and looked round. It was a small room, very barely furnished, but there were touches about it here and there—little remnants brought from his late home: a picture or two, a tiny statuette, a large bowl of flowers, a small bookcase, crowded from top to bottom with favourite writers—that redeemed it from the actual vulgarity of poverty. A poor man lived here, no doubt, but the poor man was a gentleman.
A little fire was burning on the hearth, and she went up to it and looked down at a large arm-chair close to it.
"This is where you sit?" said she. There was delight and love and humour in her eyes.
He went to her and caught her hands and pressed their palms to his lips.