But the young man's thoughts were far from foxes, because he was now to tell his lady of the conversation with Lovey Lee.
"You're sad," she said, as they rode over the Beam and descended into those heathery wastes that stretched south-east of it. "Even the thought of my first brush wins no enthusiasm from you. What's amiss, John? I fear that Lovey——?"
"Even so," he answered. "'Twas but the day before yesterday, and yet it seems long years since I heard it—my death-knell."
"What a word!"
"The true one. I only ask your leave to go. Bide here I cannot any more."
Grace looked very grave.
"What dreadful thing has fallen out?" she asked. "Whatever you have learned, it cannot make you other than you are. And it cannot surely make you love me less."
"My father was your father's brother, Grace—your Uncle Norrington, who died."
She did not answer, but stared before her. A flush lighted her cheek, but it was of exultation rather than dismay, "You're a Malherb! How glorious."
He shook his head very sadly.