“Oh, David!” I exclaimed, when I could find my voice, “is it true? How very, very happy I am.”
“Yes, Gwladys,” replied David, “it is true; but let us walk up and down this path, it is quite quiet here, and I have a story to tell you about Owen.”
“How glad I am,” I repeated, “I love him more than any one, and I quite knew how it would be, I always guessed it, I knew he would come back covered with glory. Yes, David, go on, tell me quickly, what did my darling do?”
I was rather impatient, and I wondered why David did not reply more joyfully, why, indeed, at first he did not speak at all. I could see no reason for his silence, the crowds of men and women who had filled the cathedral had dispersed, had wandered to hotels for refreshment, or gone to explore, if strangers, the beauties and antiquities the old town possessed. There was no one to molest or disturb us, as we walked up and down in this quiet part of the Close.
“Well, David,” I said, “go on, tell me about my darling.”
“Yes,” said David, “I will tell you, but I have got something else to say first.”
“What?” I asked, impatiently.
“This; you have made a mistake about Owen, you imagine him to be what he is not.”
“What do I imagine him to be?” I asked, angrily, for David’s tone put into my heart the falsest idea it ever entertained—namely, that he was jealous of my greater love for Owen.
“What do I imagine?” I asked.