The interrogation to the attentive heavens was partially framed in his mind, “How can I tell this woman I love her, without...” without putting his arm about her waist, and demonstrating it satisfactorily to himself as well as to her? In other words, not so framed, “How, without that frenzy which shall make me forget whether it be so or not?”
He remained in his attitude, incapable of moving or speaking, but fancying, that possibly he was again to catch a glimpse of the vanished mountain nymph, sweet Liberty. Her woman's instinct warmed more and more, until, if she did not quite apprehend his condition, she at least understood that the pause was one preliminary to a man's feeling himself a fool.
“Dear Wilfrid,” she whispered, “you think you are doubted. I want to be certain that you think you have met the right woman to help you, in me.”
He passed through the loophole here indicated, and breathed.
“Yes, Charlotte, I am sure of that. If I could be only half as worthy! You are full of courage and unselfishness, and, I could swear, faithful as steel.”
“Thank you—not dogs,” she laughed. “I like steel. I hope to be a good sword in your hand, my knight—or shield, or whatever purpose you put me to.”
She went on smiling, and seeming to draw closer to him and throw down defences.
“After all, Wilfrid, the task of loving your good piece of steel won't be less thoroughly accomplished because you find it difficult. Sir, I do not admit any protestation. Handsome faces, musical voices, sly manners, and methods that I choose not to employ, make the business easy to men.”
“Who discover that the lady is not steel,” said Wilfrid. “Need she, in any case, wear so much there?”
He pointed, flittingly as it were, with his little finger to the slope of her neck.