“Ah, if you thought that!”
“A sting on my fingers has brought me a friend.”
“More than that, if you will see it.”
“More than a friend?”
He took her hand. “Much more, unless that is enough.”
She let her hand stay in his, although her head was turned from him as she sat looking away into the thick phalanx of trees. A weasel ran out into the little open space before them, looked inquiringly at Philippa, as though wondering what her answer would be, and then with a zig-zag flash vanished into covert again. Every added moment of silence strengthened Von Tressen’s hope.
“Philippa,” he pleaded, drawing her hand to him, “may I be no more than that?”
Now that she turned her face to him he was sure of her answer, for he could see nothing but love in her eyes. Next instant he was on his knees by her side kissing her.
“You love me, Philippa? You must tell me that.”
“I love you,” she whispered; “could I help loving you?”