“Delia—if I love you?”
“You will not doubt that my very soul is yours—ah, Heaven—forever!”
“I wonder,” he said musingly. “Nay, do not turn your face away, for it is lovely to look upon—and mine—you say forever.”
“Yes,” she said trembling.
He seated himself beside her and took her cold hands in his; this time she did not resist; complete silence was about them; the Abbey service was over; long shadows filled the cloisters and the sunlight had faded to a mere stain on the wall. Loose gray clouds sped over the sky, and a chill little wind blew in and out the arches.
Delia rose, drawing her hand away, her face was hidden under the shadow of her hat, her figure a shadow among shadows. He rose beside her; his footfall echoed through the emptiness.
“My sweet child,” he said, in a voice fallen very low and soft.
She turned without a word and her head lifted slowly, he saw her eyes were glittering with tears.
“Kiss me,” he said gently.
She shrank back.