“Art sure I love thee, then?” she questioned.
“’Tis so I have dared dream, child.”
“And how if I—do not?”
“Then is the sun out and I lost i’ the dark.”
“Art so—very assured?” she questioned again; and then his arms were about her and he drew her close, lifting her unwilling head that he might look into her eyes.
“O loved maid!” he murmured. “Sweet Flower o’ Life, thou and I are alone here with the God that made us and yon everlasting hills.... Could thine eyes speak me aught but truth? Are these the eyes of Rose or the Lady Herminia?”
“Of ... Rose!” she whispered. And so he kissed her, her eyes, her hair, her lips, until at last: “O John,” she murmured, “art thou John Derwent or ... the ‘Wicked Dering’? For indeed ... Aunt Lucinda said but three, sir!”
CHAPTER XXXVI
WHICH CONTAINS FURTHER MENTION OF A CERTAIN SNUFF-BOX
“To-day, Bob, is Thursday, I think?”