“Lo!” said he. “You have a voice! Now Heaven be praised! I was fearing it was lost for me—that you had made some awful vow never again to rejoice my ears with the music of it.”
“You have not answered my question,” she reminded him.
“Nor you mine,” said he. “I asked you am I not yet forgiven.”
“Forgiven what?”
“For being born an impudent, fleering coxcomb—twas that you called me, I think.”
She flushed deeply. “If you would win forgiveness, you should not remind me of the offence,” she answered low.
“Nay,” he rejoined, “that is to confound forgiveness with forgetfulness. I want you to forgive and yet to remember.”
“That were to condone.”
“What else? 'Tis nothing less will satisfy me.”
“You expect too much,” she answered, with a touch that was almost of sternness.