She laughed gayly—though a bit of color touched her cheek.
"Thank you," she said, "I can read your countenance better than your bows."
Then suddenly his face grew grave and he motioned no.
"Yes, and I can understand that, too," she smiled, "and thank you for it. It may be a trifle uncommon to sit here in the depths of Windsor forest with a man I never met … never even saw until last night … and who has never spoken a single word to me … yet" (glancing at the sun) "the time is not long and … the path is rarely traveled."
He smiled—but the concern lingered in his eyes and he shook his head questioningly.
"Nay, sir, do you not see your very urging me to go proves me safe in staying?"
He hesitated, still doubtful—then threw himself on the turf at her feet.
"I suppose it is for me to do the talking," she observed.
And as she talked he fell to watching the sun in her hair—the play of her lips—the light in her eyes. … Never before would he have believed that grey could be so deep and tender; or that a mouth could be so tantalizing; or the curve of a cheek so sweet; or ruddy tresses so alluring. … And her voice—was there ever such another!—soft, low, clear, like silver bells at twilight out at sea.
And in the watching he lost her words, nor nodded when he should—until, at length, she sprang up and went over to her horse. And when in sharp contrition he followed after to apologize, she met him with a laugh and gracious gesture—then pointed to the sun.