“What, Rose?” he exclaimed. “Why, child, you’re never going to weep?”
“No!” she answered. “No!” and sobbed immediately.
Then Sir John turned her to face him, took her bowed head between his two hands, lifted it and kissed her upon the brow with a very reverent gentleness.
“Rose, child ... sweet innocence,” he sighed. “Never forget you ha’ been kissed by the ‘Wicked Dering.’ And now, come your ways to breakfast!”
CHAPTER VIII
OF A POST-CHAISE, INIQUITY AND A GRANDMOTHER
From blazing noon to twilight, from twilight to dusky eve, the lumbering coach had lurched and jolted its slow, laborious way, the ponderous wheels now rumbling over some bridge or culvert, now rattling upon loose, stony ways, now ploughing, well-nigh silent, through muffling dust. And my Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, pushing back the hood of her grey cloak, yawned frequently and unashamedly, for she was weary of it all and more especially of her slumberous and annoyingly silent companion; the whole adventure was become disappointingly ordinary, and she heartily wished herself done with it.
At last, from his shadowy corner, Sir John spoke, and his voice sounded surprisingly wide awake:
“Art still asleep, child?”
“Is your honour pleased to be awake at last?” she retorted in bitter irony.