“That is the way I love you, Quintin, ‘passing the love of women,’ Why, I do not even grudge you to her.”
She smiled again, and said cheerfully, “Now we will call them in.”
I was going to the door to do it according to her word, for that night we all obeyed her as though she had been the Queen. I was almost at the door when she rose all trembling to her feet and held out her arms entreatingly.
“Quintin, Quintin, kiss me once,” she said, “once before they come.”
I ran to her and kissed her on the brow. “Oh, not there! On the mouth. It is my right. I have paid for it!” she cried. And so I did.
Then she drew down my head and set her lips to my ear. “I lied to you, laddie—yes, I lied. I do grudge you to her. Oh, I do, I do!”
And for the first time one mighty sob caught her by the throat and rent her.
Nevertheless she straightened herself with her hand to her breast, like a wounded soldier who salutes his general ere he dies, and commanded her emotion. “Yes,” she said, looking upwards and speaking as if to one unseen, “I will play the game fairly; I have promised and I will not repine, nor go back on my word!”
She turned to me, “It is not a time for bairn’s greeting. We are to be married, you and I, are we not? Call them in.”
And she laughed a little bashfully and fitly as the folk came in and smiled to one and the other as they entered.