Falloden’s fastidious sense approved her wholly: the white dress; the hat that framed her brow; the slender gold chains which rose and fell on her gently rounded breast; her height and grace. Passion beat within him. He hung on her answer.
“Saturday—impossible! I am not free till Monday, at least. And what about the groom?” She looked up.
“I shall parade him to-morrow, livery, horse and all. I undertake he shall give satisfaction. The Lathom Woods just now are a dream!”
“It is all a dream!” she said, looking round her at the beauty of field and tree, of the May clouds, and the grey college walls—youth and youth’s emotion speaking in the sudden softening of her eyes.
He saw—he felt her—yielding.
“You’ll come?”
“I—I suppose I may as well ride in Lathom Woods as anywhere else. You have a key?”
“The groom will have it. I meet you there.”
She flushed a bright pink.
“That might have been left vague!”