There was nothing less that could be said: nothing less, at least, that was not a lie: for less, to her ears, would have said nothing. Love alone was her warrant, her title; and she had thrust his love into her helm.
There could be no other disillusionment but to take that from her, and to take it from her was to drag her to the dust.
So Terence listened. The bronze stems of the hazel saplings shone before him like prison bars, but he nodded now and then as she spoke her faith, and gazed at the golden air that burned beyond them in the west.
"I've never trusted any man enough," she ended, "to tell him all that I've told you; but you've made me believe in you; I don't know how. I suppose it really is because you're good and true. But are you quite, quite sure I mean so much to you, and that caring for me won't spoil your life?"
"One never knows what may spoil one's life," said Terence gravely "and seldom what may spoil another's; but I think it's true that you may trust me, and I'll try to be to you the friend that you desire."
He gave her his hand with boyish candour; and she held it, saying nothing, and not looking into his face.
When she released it, presently, she slid from the stile; and, turning, faced the sunset which had gilded his hair.
She was standing close to and partly in front of him, and so watched with him for a while, in silence, the setting splendours of the day.
Then, with a little sigh, she leaned back against his shoulder. Thus they stood some moments longer without a word; Terence braced to bear her weight; braced mentally to meet whatever might be coming, conscious of the beat against him of her quickened breath.
Then, with her dark head tilted back, she turned her face slowly towards him till it almost touched his lips.