"Lady Elizabeth's," she said. "You score. Dick. You've got your own, and they fit."
"Do I fit?" asked Dick.
"You don't really mean you feel strange and lost in this dream, do you?" she asked a little anxiously.
"I don't mean I feel strange in civilised life. That's only a variation on savagery—a mere matter of degree—and I like it well enough. I can talk the language, dear child, when I'm in the country. But you are my new life, and I'm—well, dazzled, let's call it. Yesterday I had to fetch you home and see that you didn't get hurt. Now, I've got to make you happier every day for the next fifty odd years. It's a tall order, and there's lots to do. I ought to begin."
"You began when you found me crying in Randal's study, Dick."
"Oh, it's easy to make people less wretched," he objected. "That's why yesterday was, on the whole, a success. But—are you happy?"
"Awfully! Oh, just awfully!" murmured Amaryllis.
"There it is!" sighed Dick, with the humour which she knew already for the natural shell of some wise little kernel. "And I've got to give you, as you give me, the keen edge of appetite for all the world and for all the people that play about in it. The stuff's all there, but——"
"Why, Dick, it's the same thing, after all, as yesterday. You saved me from beasts and from fear and from myself. You made me laugh, and you made me love—even made me love Tod, and poor Pépe, and the bees, and the round-faced girl in the cottage they bumbled round; and 'Opeful 'Arry; and you brought me home to a fairy godmother. If you could do all that in a day, Dick, just think what a lot of laughing and loving you'll be able to dig out of fifty years. And I won't let you off. Wake up, Dick. There's no dreaming about it all."
So they woke up together.