"No, no—indeed there's no one else. Though, mind, I'm free. And so are you. Shall I come to-morrow?" she asked again, with quiet insistence.
There was a gulp in Tatham's throat. Yet he rose—dismally—to her challenge.
"You would do what I like?" he asked, quivering.
"Indeed I would."
"I invited Delorme here—just to please you—and because I hoped he'd paint you."
"Then that's settled!" she said, with a little sigh of satisfaction.
"And what, please, am I to do—that you'd like?" She looked up mischievously.
"Call me Lydia—forget that you ever wanted to marry me—and don't mind a rap what people say!"
He laughed, through his pain, and gravely took her hand.
"And now," said Lydia, "I think it's time to go home."