And then Lily suddenly said in a very low, clear voice: “I do know you well enough!”
She was shaking all over. It had been a terrible effort to her to say those six words, but somehow she felt that she ought to say them.
He dropped her hands.
“I say,” he said earnestly, “you’re not playing with me? Do you really mean that? Will you allow me to hope that in time I shall be able to persuade you to do more than like me?”
He bent forward and then, after he had heard her whispered “Yes,” he suddenly understood.
In less than a moment his arms were round her, he was straining her to his heart, and raining kisses on her face. Then—but Lily did not know it—he did a rather fine thing. He drew back.
“Forgive me!” he exclaimed. “That was wrong! But a man can’t always do right. For—and I’m quite serious, mind you—we’re not to consider ourselves engaged till you’ve written to your uncle, till you know a little more about me, till—till”—he could not say “till you do a little more than like me!” for he knew now that she did.
They walked on a little way in silence, both extraordinarily happy, yet both feeling extraordinarily shy.
“I’m not a bit jealous of Beppo Polda now,” he said suddenly. “But, oh, darling—darling, I wish that instead of taking you up to La Solitude I was taking you—well, anywhere else. Somehow I’m afraid of that place! I—I simply hate the Countess Polda!”—he spoke between his teeth. “Do you remember that first visit that Popeau and I paid there, when she forced me to tell her all sorts of things about myself——?”
“I thought you managed very well,” said Lily, smiling in the darkness. “I shall never forget your saying you felt as if you’d known me a lifetime!”