"Let them!" he muttered grimly; "you're my wife!"
So he bore her across the garden into the arbour and laying her upon the divan, sank beside it on his knees, panting a little.
"A little weak—still!" said he, "but not so bad—you're no scraggy sylph, thank heaven! Hermione—look at me!" But she turned and hid her face against him, for his clasp was close about her still. So he stooped and kissed her hair, her glowing cheek, her soft white neck, and, in that instant—wonder of wonders—her arms were around him, strong, passionate arms that clung and drew him close—then strove wildly to hold him away.
"Loose me!" she cried, "let me go! Geoffrey—husband, be generous and let me go!" But he lifted her head, back and back across his arm until beneath her long lashes her eyes looked into his.
"Hermione, when will you—be my wife?"
Against him he could feel the sweet hurry of her breathing, and stooping he spoke again, lip to lip:
"Hermione, when will you be my wife?"
But, even while he kissed her, between those quivering, parted lips came a murmur of passionate prayer and pleading.
"Oh, my love, wait—wait! Let me tell you—ah, loose me and let me tell you."
Slowly his hold relaxed, and, twisting in his arms, she slipped upon her knees beside him, and, crouching close, hid her face against him.