‘Are those verses your own, Mr Cumbermede?’ she asked, almost in a whisper.
I turned trembling. Her lovely face was looking up at me.
‘Yes,’ I answered—‘as much my own as that I believe they are not to be found anywhere. But they were given to me rather than made by me.’
‘Would you let me have them? I am not sure that I understand them.’
‘I am not sure that I understand them myself. They are for the heart rather than the mind. Of course you shall have them. They were written for you. All I have, all I am, is yours.’
Her face flushed, and grew pale again instantly.
‘You must not talk so,’ she said. ‘Remember.’
‘I can never forget. I do not know why you say remember.’
‘On second thoughts, I must not have the verses. I beg your pardon.’
‘Mary, you bewilder me. I have no right to ask you to explain, except that you speak as if I must understand. What have they been telling you about me?’