Joan Grant turned from the window. Her aloofness and disdain were gone. "Would you not stay to guard our wounded here?" she asked.
The mellow sunlight was busy in her hair. Her voice was low and pleading. Kit was dizzied by temptation. And Lady Ingilby looked on, wondering how this man would take the baptism.
"We fight where the King needs us most—that is the Metcalf way," he said at last.
"If I asked you not to go? Of course, I care nothing either way. But suppose I asked you?"
With entire simplicity and boyishness, Kit touched the kerchief in his hat. "This goes white so far as I can guide it."
"Ah," said Lady Ingilby. "The King should hear of you, sir, in days to come."
When he had gone, Joan came to her aunt's side. "He—he does not care, and I would we were home in Yoredale, he and I. I was free to flout him there."
"Never trust men," said Lady Ingilby, with great cheeriness. "He does not care, of course—no man does when the battle music sounds."
"But he—he was glad to wear my kerchief."
"It is the fashion among our Cavaliers. That is all. He would not care to take the field without a token that some poor gentlewoman was dying of heart-break for his wounds."