"Thank you—yes."
"Yet you—sound very restless. What is it, dear?"
"O Diana—have you—nothing to—to tell me?"
"You mean—to confess? No, dear."
"Nothing?" I groaned.
"Only to bid you not worry your dear, foolish head over trifles—"
"Trifles?" I gasped, sitting up in my amazement. "Trifles?"
"Silly trifles!" said she with a strange, little, tremulous laugh. "You came seeking me. You wish to make me your wife because your love is nobler, greater than you or I ever dreamed. And I am yours, and we are together at last and this—this is all that can possibly matter to us—Fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies—was that so very much to pay for me? Do you regret your purchase?"
"No."
"Then—have faith in your love for me, Peregrine. Give me your hand in mine—this dear hand that fought for me and would lift poor me out of the shameful mire. And now, good night, beloved—now, shut your eyes! Are they closed?"