"I—trust your ladyship is well after your—your fright of yesterday," said he at last.
"My ladyship is very well, sir," she sighed, "though vapourish!"
"Which means?"
"Perhaps I—mourn my lost divinity."
Her tone was light, but he saw that her lips quivered as she averted her head.
"Betty," he cried impulsively, "I was a fool! All night long I've burned with anger at my folly, for I do know you could never be aught but pure and maidenly no matter what you—you chanced to wear. So do I come craving your forgiveness."
"O Major—Major Jack," she sighed, leaning towards him, all glowing tenderness, "first hear me say you spoke me truth, it—it was indeed—unworthy—a hoyden trick! But I have trod a different world to you—a world of careless gaiety and idle chatter, where nought is serious, reverence unknown and love itself a pastime. So I have loved no man—save my brother Charles for we've been lonely all our days—nay, Major John!" for he had caught her hand to his lips again.
"And I dared think you unmaidenly!" he murmured, in bitter self-reproach.
"So would the mother I never knew had she seen me as—as poor Aunt Belinda saw me—and yet—I vow 'twas monstrous laughable!" and my lady hovered between laughter and tears.
"Am I forgiven?" he pleaded.