"I always joke when I am most serious," Saltash assured her.
"Oh, don't!" She clung closer to his arm. "What shall we do? He—he can't do anything, can he? We—we—we really are married, aren't we?"
Saltash's most appalling grimace fled like a hunted goblin across his face. "Married? Heavens, child! What more do you want? Haven't you seen it—actually seen it—in our greatest London daily? And can a London daily lie? You may have dreamed the wedding, but that paragraph—that paragraph—it takes a genius of the first literary degree to dream a paragraph, though it may only need quite an ordinary fool to write it! Why, what is the matter? What is it? Did you see something? Not a mouse? Not a beetle? I prithee, not a beetle!"
For Toby had suddenly hidden her face against his shoulder and there was actual panic in the clinging of her arms. He laid a hand upon her head, and patted it lightly, admonishingly.
She did not speak for a second or two, only gulped with desperate effort at self-restraint. Then, at length, in a muffled voice, "Don't let him take me away!" she besought him shakily. "You—you—you've promised to keep me—now."
"But, of course I'm keeping you," said Saltash. "It's what I did it for. It's the very essence of the game. Cheer up, Nonette! I'm not parting with any of my goods, worldly or otherwise, this journey."
"You are sure?" whispered Toby. "Sure?"
"Sure of what?" He bent swiftly, and for a second, only a second, his lips touched her hair.
"Sure you—don't—want to?" came in a gasp from Toby, as she burrowed a little deeper.
"Oh, that!" Saltash stood up again, and his face was sardonic, for the moment almost grim. "Yes, quite sure of that, my dear. Moreover,—it will amuse me to meet the virtuous Jake on his own ground for once. A new sensation, Nonette! Will you help me to face him? Or do you prefer the more early-Victorian rôle of the lady who retires till the combat is over and then emerges to reward the winner?"