“Did he tell you so?”
“No; Mr. Powys did.”
“Told you that Lady Charlotte—”
“Yes. Not, is; but, was. And he used that word... there is no word like it,... he said 'her lover'—Oh! mine!” Emilia lifted her arms. Her voice from its deepest fall had risen to a cry.
Wilfrid caught her as she slipped from her saddle. His heart was in a tumult; stirred both ways: stirred with wrath and with love. He clasped her tightly.
“Am I?—am I?” he breathed.
“My lover!” Emilia murmured.
He was her slave again.
For, here was something absolutely his own. His own from the roots; from the first growth of sensation. Something with the bloom on it: to which no other finger could point and say: “There is my mark.”
(And, ladies, if you will consent to be likened to a fruit, you must bear with these observations, and really deserve the stigma. If you will smile on men, because they adore you as vegetable products, take what ensues.)