"I know you do, dear," he said. "It's almost unbelievable—yet I know you do."
She opened her eyes. The Boy had come back. She had not heard his light step, on the springy turf. He knelt in his favourite place, on the left of her chair, and bent over her. Once more his face was radiant. His faith had not failed.
She looked up into his shining eyes, and the joy in her own heart made her dizzy.
"Boy dear," she whispered, "not my lips, because—I am not altogether yours—I may have to—you know?—the Professor. But, oh Boy, I can't help it! I'm afraid I care terribly."
He was quite silent; yet it seemed to her that he had shouted. A burst of trumpet-triumph seemed to fill the air.
He bent lower. "Of course I wouldn't, Christobel," he said; "not before the seventh day. But there's a lot beside lips, and it's all so dear."
Then she felt the Boy's kisses on her hair, on her brow, on her eyes. "Dear eyes," he said, "shedding tears for my pain. Ah, dear eyes!" And he kissed them again.
She put up her hand, to push him gently away. He captured it, and held it to his lips.
"Stop, Boy dear," she said. "Be good now, and sit down."
He slipped to the grass at her feet, and rested his head against her knee.