“You broke your vow?”
“Like a shot—.”
He was in earnest, she had never seen him so much in earnest. Some good elf had surely whispered in his ear what she craved for at that moment—perhaps always—a forceful impetuosity of wooing, which should snatch decision from her. Her hand was in his again, and not withdrawn. She begged him to have some thought of eyes from the house.
“Say yes, or I’ll not answer for myself.”
He was told to give her five minutes for consideration, and at the end of two was vowing that they were more than past, and pressing for his answer. To punish him, she lengthened the time, declaring that he should hear nothing until they had reached a certain tree near the house, and thus kept him fuming, at one moment uttering sincere vows, at the next denouncing her cruelty. Anne was in the mood to like inconsistency.
“Now!” he exclaimed, when they were a hundred feet away.
“Do you call that reached?”
“If the sun were out, you’d be in its shadow. Give me my word. Just yes, Anne—yes! Such a small one!”
“No, is smaller.” Then she repented and looked at him. “Yes, then.”
“You are mine!”