A long time had gone by, and the shadow of the Castle had blotted out the shaft of sunshine which had spread its glory of golden green on the lawn when the carriage had reached the Castle. Desmond still sat alone as a light step crossed the floor, and a soft arm was slipped round his neck. He looked up and saw Dulcie.
‘You needn’t say anything, Desmond,’ she said. ‘Peebles has told me. I am so happy, dear, for your sake.’
He drew her to his side.
‘You loved me, Dulcie, when I was the poor Squireen: will you love me the less now that I’m to be the next Lord Kilpatrick?’
‘Not less,’ answered Dulcie, ‘nor more. Sure,’ she added, with the most musical of brogues, ‘’twould be impossible!’