"The dead De Moidreys in their frames need not worry, Philippa. If I paint you as you are, the honor of your presence will be entirely theirs."
"Are you laughing at me?"
He looked up sharply; the girl's face was serious and rather pale.
They were traversing a corner of a woodland where young birches clustered, slim and silvery under their canopy of green which as yet had not changed to royal gold.
He picked up her hand as they emerged into the sunlight of a field, raised it, and touched his lips to the delicate fingers.
It was his answer; and the girl realized instantly what the old-fashioned salute of respect conveyed; and her fingers clung to his hand.
"Jim," she said unsteadily, "if you knew—if you only could realize what you have done for me—what you are doing for me every moment I am with you—by your kindness, your gentleness, your generous belief in me—what miracles you accomplish by the very tones of your voice when you speak to me—by your good, kind smile of encouragement—by your quiet patience with me——"
Her voice broke childishly, and she bent her head and took possession of his arm, holding to it tightly and in silence.
Surprised and moved by her emotion, he found nothing to say for a moment—did not seem to know quite how to respond to the impulsive gratitude so sincerely exaggerated, so prettily expressed.
Finally he said: