Sir Willoughby was enraptured with her. Even so purely coldly, statue-like, Dian-like, would he have prescribed his bride's reception of his caress. The suffusion of crimson coming over her subsequently, showing her divinely feminine in reflective bashfulness, agreed with his highest definitions of female character.
"Let me conduct you to the garden, my love," he said.
She replied: "I think I would rather go to my room."
"I will send you a wild-flower posy."
"Flowers, no; I do not like them to be gathered."
"I will wait for you on the lawn."
"My head is rather heavy."
His deep concern and tenderness brought him close.
She assured him sparklingly that she was well. She was ready to accompany him to the garden and stroll over the park.
"Headache it is not," she added.