"I do not suppose it, and yet I feel very much like laughing at you a little. So you think you can make yourself a woman I would not like,—eh, my darling?"
He had drawn Eleanor's head down to his shoulder, within easy reach of his lips, but he did not kiss her. His right hand smoothed back the masses of her beautiful hair, and then rested on her cheek while he looked into the face thus held for near inspection; much as one handles a child. The touch was light and caressing, and calm as power too. Eleanor breathed quick. She could not bear it. She forced herself back where she could look at him.
"You are taking it lightly, but I mean it very seriously," she said. "I think I could—I think I shall. I did not write you such a letter without very deep reason."
He still retained his hold of her, and in his right hand had captured one of hers. This hand he now brought to his lips, kissing and caressing it.
"I do not think I understand it yet," he said. "What are you going to do with yourself? Is it your old passion for a monastic life come up again? do you want the old Priory built up, and me for a Father Confessor?"
Did he mean ever to loose his hold of the little hand he held so lightly and firmly? Never! Eleanor's head drooped.
"What is it, Eleanor?"
"It is serious work, Mr. Carlisle; and you will not believe me."
"Make me serious too. Tell me a little more definitely what dreadful thing I am to expect. What sort of a woman is my wife going to be?"
"Such a one as you would not have, if you knew it;—such a one as you never would have sought, if I had known it myself earlier; I feel sure." Eleanor's colour glowed all over her face and brow; nevertheless she spoke steadily.