Then Myra rose, radiant, and came and stood before him. The sunbeams shone through the beech leaves and danced in her grey eyes. She had never looked more perfect in her sweet loveliness. The man took it all in, and the glory of possession lighted his handsome face.
She came and stood before him, laying her hands upon his breast. He wrapped his arms lightly about her. He saw she had something to say; and he waited.
“Jim,” said Myra, “Jim, dearest. There is just one name I want to bear, more than any other. There is just one thing I long to be. Then I shall be content. I want to have the right to be called ‘Mrs. Jim Airth.’ I want more than all else beside, to be your wife. But—until I am that; and may it be very soon! until you make me ‘Mrs. Jim Airth’—dearest—I—am Lady Ingleby.”
CHAPTER XVI
UNDER THE BEECHES AT SHENSTONE
Jim Airth’s arms fell slowly to his sides. He still looked into those happy, loving eyes, but the joy in his own died out, leaving them merely cold blue steel. His face slowly whitened, hardened, froze into lines of silent misery. Then he moved back a step, and Myra’s hands fell from him.
“You—‘Lady Ingleby’?” he said.
Myra gazed at him, in unspeakable dismay.