‘I do solemnly promise—on the conditions named.’
‘Very good. You will have ensured my fulfilment of my promise before I can ensure yours; but I take your word.’
‘You will marry me on Friday! Give me your hand upon it.’
She gave him her hand.
‘Is it a covenant?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ said she.
Lord Mountclere warmed from surface to centre as if he had drunk of hippocras, and, after holding her hand for some moments, raised it gently to his lips.
‘Two days and you are mine,’ he said.
‘That I believe I never shall be.’
‘Never shall be? Why, darling?’