She had given a little cry when first the meaning of his riddle became apparent to her, and, snatching away one hand, had covered her face with it.
All the Irish fervor and poetry of Claud's nature was kindled. He was no backward lover,—the words rushed to his lips, he knew not how.
Determinedly he put his arm round his love as she sat, speaking with his lips close to her ear.
"Wyn," he said, with that sweetness of voice and manner which had first won her heart. "Wyn, I'll give you no option. You are mine; you know it. I deserve punishment; but don't punish me, dear, for I tell you you can't be happy without me, any more than I without you. Is that presumption? I think not,—I believe it's insight. There are times, you know, when one seems to push away all the manners and customs of the day, and my heart just cries out to yours that we are made for one another. My own, just look at me a minute, and tell me if that isn't so."
Drawing her closer to him, he gently pulled away her hand from her eyes and made her look at him.
"Is it true? Dare you contradict me, sweetheart?" he said, tenderly. "Don't you belong to me?"
The authoress could find no eloquent reply. No words would obey the bidding of her feelings. With her head at rest at last on her lover's heart, like the veriest bread-and-butter miss, she could only murmur a bald, bare, "Yes,—I—I think so."
"You think so, do you, my love?" he said, ecstatically. "Tell me what makes you think so, then, sweet?"
She closed her eyes, and, lifting her arm, she laid it round his neck with a sigh of bliss.
"I—can't," said she, weakly.