“This,” said Sir John, “is the stile beyond the little footbridge.”
“Well?” she inquired, a little breathlessly.
“Won’t you say ‘John’?”
“Well, John?” she repeated obediently.
“And it is an aged stile, Rose. See how warped are its timbers. And consequently ’tis very like that many a man hath kissed his maid here.... Say ‘Yes, John.’”
“Yes, John.”
“And yet, Rose, as I do think, none of them all ever kissed with such reverent fervour as we are about to do.... Say ‘Never in all the world, John!’”
“Nay ... oh, wait!” she cried more breathlessly than ever.
“Indeed, I am in no haste,” he answered. “But here to-night, Rose, thou and I that so love each other, do plight our troth....”