"And the last thought in my mind to-night was to attack your 'side,'" he protested.
Her tremulous sense drank in the gentleness of his voice, the joy of his strong, enveloping presence, and the sweetness of her own surrender which had brought him back to her, the thought of it vibrating between them, unspoken. Until, suddenly, at the door of the Abbey, Winnington halted and took her by both hands.
"I must go home. Good-night. Have you got books to amuse you?"
"Plenty."
"Poor child!—all alone! But you'll have Lady Tonbridge to-morrow."
"How do you know? She mayn't come."
"I'm going there now. I'll make her. You—you won't be doing any more embroidery to-night?"
He looked at her slyly. Delia laughed out.
"There!—when one tries to be feminine, that's how you mock!"
"'Mock!' I admired. Good-night!—I shall be here to-morrow."