“Let me go,” she implored him.
He loosened his hold a trifle and pressed her to him again. Once more it looked as if both were resisting.
“Come back up into the wood,” he urged again and again.
“Oh, it's impossible!” she answered. “And then it's all wet with the dew.”
But the Captain was full of passionate words—full and frothing over.
“Oh, I used to think I didn't care much about eyes! Blue eyes—huh! Grey eyes—huh! Eyes any sort of colour—huh! But then you came with those brown eyes of yours....”
“They are brown, yes....”
“You burn me with them; you—you roast me up!”
“To tell the truth, you're not the first that's said nice things about my eyes. My husband now....”
“Ah, but what about me!” cries the Captain. “I tell you, Frue, if I'd only met you twenty years ago, I wouldn't have answered for my reason. Come; there's no dew to speak of up in the wood.”