"Thank you," she breathed, and this time plainly pressed his hand. He seized it and returned the pressure, feeling like a knight of the middle ages. (Or a middle-aged knight?) "And you are content to do this without reasons—explanations?"
"If you'll give me one excuse," he said craftily.
"Bitte?"
"I don't know what they call it in your language," said Henry, and hesitated. A shred of bashfulness still hung about him, but he was growing up fast—expanding like a flower beneath the sun. "May I explain?" he asked courageously.
"But certainly!"
So Henry kissed her.
"For that excuse," he whispered with a new-found eloquence, "I'd do more than you ask."
She laughed and imprinted a feather upon his cheek.
"So you have a soul after all!" she said happily. "I congratulate you and ... myself."
The last word was inaudible; indeed it was not meant for the new henchman of Romance.