And now the thought came to him—an audacious thought—that he would call her as her grandfather called her; as Lord Oakleigh was permitted to call her. He would do it, and mark the result. He expected it would startle her; most likely, offend her; she might be angry, but he would try it.
He trembled with thought of the daring; but, after a time, he felt that his voice might be trusted. He looked down upon her—so looked that her eyes must gaze straight into his own when she lifted her head, and then, drawing the hand upon his arm more closely to his side, he made the venture:
She looked up quickly, looked up with a joy in her face, with a happiness beaming in her sparkling eyes, such as the youth had never seen there before.
Never had his voice sounded so softly sweet in her ears, never had she heard music so nearly divine. She clung to him fondly, and expectantly, waiting for him to go on.
“Percy!” she whispered, when she found that he would speak no further. “What were you going to say?”
He could contain himself no longer. The deep feelings of his heart, held in check so long, were to find utterance at length. But he had a thought of the maid walking behind them, and was guarded.
“O dear, dear lady! Cordelia! How dared I speak that name? How dared I call you as those of your own rank in life call you? I will tell you, if I may. Shall I go on?”
“Yes, yes; go on.” And she wound her arm more closely around the support it had found.
“I spoke that name for a test, dear—”