“You take, sir, a curious tone for a stranger,” she said at last.
“I would not have us strangers, Delia—did not you say the same King, the same faith, the same cause?”
She turned as some one standing on defense.
“What do you mean?”
A slight smile crossed his face; it might have been sadness or contempt; he leaned heavily against the Abbey wall and his shadow was over Delia.
“What do I mean?” he repeated; he looked at her in a very gentle manner. “I mean I should like to be in your thoughts sometimes—”
She rose, and her muff fell unnoticed between them.
“Am I in yours?” she asked slowly.
“You have the sweetest face I have ever met,” he said quietly, “Is it likely I should forget you?”
She went very pale and put her hands together in a bewildered way; he surveyed her gravely with a half-sad interest, standing very much at his ease and carelessly while she was tense and painfully still.