Sir Anthony leaned forward, and took the mare’s bridle above the bit; the horses stopped, and stood still, very close together. An arm was round Prudence’s shoulder; the roan’s reins lay loose on his neck. Prudence turned a little towards Sir Anthony, and was gripped to rest against a broad shoulder. He bent his head over hers; she had a wild heart-beat, and put out a hand with a little murmur of agitation. It was taken in a firm clasp: for the first time Sir Anthony kissed her, and if that first kiss fell awry, as a first kiss must, the second was pressed ruthlessly on her quivering lips. She was held in a hard embrace; she flung up an arm round Sir Anthony’s neck, and gave a little sob, half of protest, half of gladness.
The horses moved slowly on; the riders were hand-locked. “Never?” Sir Anthony said softly.
She remembered she had said she could never be in a flutter. It seemed one was wrong. “I thought not indeed.” Her fingers trembled in his. “I had not before experienced — that, you see.”
He smiled, and raised her hand to his mouth. “Do I not know it?” he said.
The grey eyes were honest, and looked gravely. “You could not know it.”
The smile deepened. “Of course I could know it, my dear. Oh, foolish Prue!”
It was all very mysterious; the gentleman appeared to be omniscient. And what in the world was there to amuse him so? She gave a sigh of content. “You give me the happy ending I never thought to have,” she said.
“I suppose you thought I was like to expose you in righteous wrath when I discovered the truth?”
“Something of the sort, sir,” she admitted.
“You’re an amazing woman, my dear,” was all he said.