“He has found a haven,” said Mr. George. “Yes, without doubt he has found his haven. What do you think, Milly?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Don't call me sir, child. What makes you do so?”
“There is nothing else I can call you, is there,—sir.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Foxley. He lay back at full length on the grass and put his hands over his eyes. The river rippled on and Milly watched him anxiously. “Is the leaf there still, Milly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now!” said Mr. Foxley in a warning tone. “I tell you I won't have it.”
“No, sir—I beg your pardon, Mr. George.”
“Nor that either,” said Mr. Foxley, slowly rising into a sitting posture again. He had another poke at the yellow leaf. “Call me Dacre, my child, will you?” Milly no longer watched him with those loving, anxious, eyes. She was trembling from head to foot and had she spoken, she must have wept. Mr. Foxley's voice was of itself enough to make any woman weep, it was so soft, so tender, so subdued and indrawn. Once more he said, “Call me Dacre, my child!” That pleading voice, so low, so musical, and that it should plead to her? They were so close together that he could feel her tremble. Weak as he was, he was the stronger of the two for a moment, and turning slightly towards her met her rapturous eyes, and heard her call him the name he wanted to hear. The same instant they kissed, a long thrilling dark-enfolding kiss that was the first Milly had ever known from a man and might have been, for its purity and restraint, the first also that he had ever given to a woman.
“Have I found my haven too, like the wise leaf of autumn? Have I! Tell me, my child, my darling!”