“Sir William loves me beyond all you could imagine, Mr. Romney”—she said, delaying a little.
“What else could he do? What else can any of ’em do? Tell me news, Emma. Tell me he stays in England now he’s here.”
“Alas, no, my dear, dear friend. His duties take him back to Naples.”
“And you with him?”
“And I with him. As his wife.”
She sat half frightened, half triumphant, with the man looking at her open-mouthed, fixed. She answered the beseeching in his face.
“Yes, it’s true. His wife.”
“But not yet—not yet?”
“In a few days. But then we stop here awhile. Oh, Mr. Romney, you shall paint me on my wedding day.”
“Your wedding day. No. He’ll want you with him.”