“There is no other way then that I know. You won’t marry anybody, you see.”
“Won’t I, Gibbie? What makes you think that?”
“Because of course you would never refuse Donal and marry anybody else; that is not possible.”
“Oh! don’t tease me, Gibbie.”
“Ginevra, you don’t mean you would?”
In the dull light, and with the imperfect means of Gibbie for the embodiment of his thoughts, Ginevra misunderstood him.
“Yes, Gibbie,” she said, “I would. I thought it was understood between us, ever since that day you found me on Glashgar. In my thoughts I have been yours all the time.”
She turned her face to the lamp-post. But Gibbie made her look.
“You do not mean,” he spelled very hurriedly, “that you would marry me?—Me? I never dreamed of such a thing!”
“You didn’t mean it then!” said Ginevra, with a cry—bitter but feeble with despair and ending in a stifled shriek. “What have I been saying then! I thought I belonged to you! I thought you meant to take me all the time!” She burst into an agony of sobbing. “Oh me! me! I have been alone all the time, and did not know it!”