"And you will give up all that you have had—all that you could keep—and go out into the world with him to take up life at its beginnings?"
"If he asks me to. But he will not ask me; he is too proud."
"How do you know?"
His gaze wavered for an instant, and she turned away quickly. "Because he has told me so."
Brockway rose rather unsteadily and went to the rivulet to get a drink. The sweetly maddening truth was beginning to beat its way into his brain, and he stood dazed for a moment before he remembered that he had brought no drinking-cup. Then he knelt by the stream, and, turning his silk travelling-cap inside out, filled it to the brim with the clear, cold water. His hands trembled a little, but he made shift to carry it to her without spilling much.
"It is a type of all that I have to offer you, besides myself—not even so much as a cup to drink out of," he said, and his voice was steadier than his hands. "Will you let me be your cup-bearer—always?"
She was moved to smile at the touch of old-world chivalry, but she fell in with his mood and put his hands away gently.
"No—after you; it is I who should serve." And when he had touched his lips to the water, she drank deeply and thanked him.
Brockway thrust the dripping cap absently into his pocket, and stood looking down on her like a man in a maze; stood so long that she glanced up with a quizzical little smile and said, "Are you sorry?"
He came to himself with a start and sat down on the tree-trunk beside her. "Sorry? You know better than that. But I do believe I'm a bit idiotic with happiness. Are you quite sure you know what you have done?"