“Then I will do all I can to deserve it. And nobody must call you Milly any more. You are Mildred now. Miss Mildred if you like and soon, very soon, to bear another name, mine. It is a good one, child.”
“I am sure of it, dear Dacre, and too good—far too good—for me.”
“Do you know how old I am, my child?”
“I heard your brother say.”
“And did he dare? What did he say it was, my age?”
“He said—you were forty-one.”
“Then he was out. It is more than that I am exactly forty-three; I say exactly, for, Milly, this is my birthday, and—I cannot hope—neither of as must dare to hope, child—that I shall see many more. You will marry me whenever I say, my love?”
The girl bent over him in a passion of weeping.
“There is nothing I would not do for you, dear sir—”
“Except call me by my dearly-beloved third name!”