“Oh—you won’t go—you won’t!” she cried, and then without further warning burst into a passion of tears.
“Don’t, Doris, for God’s sake,” he whispered. “Don’t break now. I need all your courage and your strength. You’ve been so brave—so strong. Keep up your spirits, there’s a dear. We’ll pull through, don’t you worry.”
“They’ll take you—if you stay here.”
“No. They won’t find us. I’m not afraid of that, and there are water and biscuits here. We’ll take things easy for a while and then slip off. Do you think I could go and leave you in the lurch? Pretty sort of a Johnny I’d be to do a thing like that! Not for twenty Englands, Doris,” he whispered, kissing her tenderly. “Not for twenty Englands, I wouldn’t.” His touch soothed her and she grew more quiet.
“Of—of course you w-wouldn’t,” she murmured. “But I w-wish you would.”
Her hands met around his neck and he raised her chin and kissed her on the mouth. It was a kiss of plighted troth, of tenderness, faith and the exalted passion that comes with tears.
“Mated?” he whispered.
“Yes—yes,” she murmured faintly.
They did not move for a long moment when Doris slowly disengaged her arms from around his neck and moved slightly away. Her hair had fallen and hung in golden disorder about her shoulders. She put up her arm, trying to catch the escaping pins, and then she smiled at him, dimpling adorably.
“Come,” he said gently. “You must get to bed. Your coat is nearly dry, but I’ll cover you with my jacket. You must sleep, too. No shammin’, you know. Can’t tell what may happen tomorrow.”