He put his hands on her slender shoulders:
“Babette,” said he—“I have told my father you are of the De la Rues of Paris.”
She laughed gaily.
He frowned at her in mock solemnity:
“Thou must not laugh at that jest before my father,” he said. “My father believes in the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Nobility and Me. It’s his only creed. Thou must never shake a man’s religious faith, my Babette. And he will love thee, with his rough love—for thou art very beautiful—and—thou lovest me.”
She slipped her hand through his arm, and nestled her face close to his:
“Horace,” she said simply—“I will tell thee now what I had intended to tell thee never: there is a little one coming—a little child——”
He was filled with a great silence and wonder.
He sat holding her slender fingers and gazing at her shy eyes. He put out his hand and placed it upon her breasts:
“And what if it usurp my place and oust me from thy fragrant bosom?” he said.