"I will wear anything you like," she said, the nice eyes meeting his, not the least stupidly, he reflected, though women who were affectionate often looked stupid. "I will do anything you like; you don't know what you have done for me, Lord Walderhurst."
They moved a trifle nearer to each other, this inarticulate pair. He dropped his eyeglass and patted her shoulder.
"Say 'Walderhurst' or 'James'—or—or 'my dear,'" he said. "We are going to be married, you know." And he found himself going to the length of kissing her cheek with some warmth.
"I sometimes wish," she said feelingly, "that it was the fashion to say 'my lord' as Lady Castlewood used to do in 'Esmond.' I always thought it nice."
"Women are not so respectful to their husbands in these days," he answered, with his short laugh. "And men are not so dignified."
"Lord Castlewood was not very dignified, was he?"
He chuckled a little.
"No. But his rank was, in the reign of Queen Anne. These are democratic days. I'll call you 'my lady' if you like."
"Oh! No—no!" with fervour, "I wasn't thinking of anything like that."
"I know you were not," he reassured her. "You are not that kind of woman."