“O sir, dearest sir—I mean, dear Dacre, it is I who have found mine. If indeed you care for me, sir!”
Mr. Foxley laid his head just on her shoulder, then let it slide into her lap, taking her trembling hands and putting them over his eyes.
“I do more than care for you, my child. I love you. Stoop and kiss me. There. Don't take your head away again like that. Leave it. Your face against mine. Your lips on mine. Is it a haven, child? Truly, yes or no?”
“Dear Dacre!”
“Well!”
“You know it is. And I have always wanted so much to—to—care for you, but I did not dare.”
“Dare! There is no dare about it my child. If you will give me your young life—how old are you now, love?”
“Nineteen,” whispered Milly into his ear.
“Only nineteen, and such a tall girl, with such long hair—if you will give it to me and be happy in giving it, child, that must be thought of, there is no one else—”
“You know there is not, sir.”