At eleven o'clock he was in London, and Nesta rode beside Mrs. Marsett amid the troop.
A South-easterly wind blew the waters to shifty goldleaf prints of brilliance under the sun.
'I took a liberty this morning, I called you "Dear" this morning,' the lady said. 'It's what I feel, only I have no right to blurt out everything I feel, and I was ashamed. I am sure I must have appeared ridiculous. I got quite nervous.'
'You would not be ridiculous to me.'
'I remember I spoke of Ned!
'You have spoken of him before.'
'Oh! I know: to you alone. I should like to pluck out my heart and pitch it on the waves, to see whether it would sink or swim. That's a funny idea, isn't it! I tell you everything that comes up. What shall I do when I lose you! You always make me feel you've a lot of poetry ready-made in you.'
'We will write. And you will have your husband then.'
'When I had finished my letter to Ned, I dropped my head on it and behaved like a fool for several minutes. I can't bear the thought of losing you!'
'But you don't lose me,' said Nesta; 'there is no ground for your supposing that you will. And your wish not to lose me, binds me to you more closely.'