Wilfrid, as it chanced, was ten minutes late. She did not hear his voice till he had sunk on his knee by her side.
“What a reverie!” he said half jealously. “Isn't it lovely here?”
Emilia pressed his hand, but without turning her face to him, as her habit was. He took it for shyness, and encouraged her with soft exclamations and expansive tenderness.
“I wish I had not come here!” she murmured.
“Tell me why?” He folded his arm about her waist.
“Why did you let me wait?” said she.
Wilfrid drew out his watch; blamed the accident that had detained him, and remarked that there were not many minutes to witness against him.
She appeared to throw off her moodiness. “You are here at last. Let me hold your hand, and think, and be quite silent.”
“You shall hold my hand, and think, and be quite silent, my own girl! if you will tell me what's on your mind.”
Emilia thought it enough to look in his face, smiling.