'Yes, you think so, I dare say. But I know what a woman's waiting generally comes to—above all when she is one of the most beautiful women in London. Madge, don't sting me with cold words, or cold looks. You do not know how I have yearned for this hour.'
She had seated herself by one of the little tables, and was idly turning the leaves of an ivory-bound volume. Churchill knelt down beside her, and took the white ringed hand away from the book, and covered it with kisses—and put his arm round her as she sat—leaning his head against her shoulder, as if he had found rest there, after long weariness.
'Have some compassion upon me, darling,' he pleaded. 'Pity nerves that have been strained, a mind that has been overtaxed. Do not think that I have not felt this business. I have felt it God alone knows how intensely. But I come here for happiness. Time enough for troublous thoughts when you and I are apart. Here I would remember nothing—know nothing but the joy of being with you, to touch your hand, to hear your voice, to look into those deep, dark eyes.'
There was nothing but love in the eyes that met his gaze now—love unquestioning and unmeasured.
'Dearest, I will never speak of your cousin again if it pains you,' Madge said, earnestly. 'I ought to have been more considerate.'
She pushed back a loose lock from the broad forehead where the hair grew thinly, with a gentle caressing hand; timidly, for it was the first time she had touched her lover's brow, and there was something of a wife's tenderness in the action.
'Churchill,' she exclaimed, 'your forehead burns as if you were in a fever. You are not ill, I hope?'
'No, dear, not ill. But I have been over-anxious, over-excited, perhaps. I am calm now, happy now, Madge. When shall I speak to your father? I want to feel myself your acknowledged lover.'
'You can speak to papa whenever you like, Churchill. He came home last night from Newmarket. I know he will be glad to see you either here or at his club.'