"I suppose so," said Rotha, flushing deeper but speaking frankly, as her manner was. "It would be nothing new."
"I should think that would come to be terribly monotonous!" he said with feigned dryness.
"On the contrary!" said Rotha. "That is just what saves life from monotony." And then her colour fairly flamed up; but she would not qualify her words.
"Right in principle," he said, smiling now, "but wrong in application."
"How, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, a little abashed.
He threw his letter on one side, came and sat down by her, and putting his arm round her shoulders, answered first by one of those silent answers which—sometimes—say so much more than anything spoken.
"I should be a sorry fellow," he said, "if I did not estimate those words at their full value, which to me is beyond value. I know you of old, and how much they mean. But, Rotha, this is not to be the rule of your life,—nor of mine."
"Why not?" she asked shyly.
"Because we are both servants of another Master, whom we love even better than we love each other."
Did they? Did she? Rotha leaned her head upon her hand and queried. Was she all right there? Or, as her heart was bounding back to the allegiance she had so delighted to give to Mr. Digby, might she be in danger of putting that allegiance first? He would not do the like. No, he would never make such a mistake; but she?—Mr. Southwode went on,