“You wrote me that love lay all in the chance of meeting, Judith!” The man’s voice was tremulous with desire.
“Ay, so I believe it does,” she answered, her eyes falling for an instant before his.
“You said that you might meet me and find me the man of your heart’s desire, Judith.”
“Well, if love lies in chance, why might I not chance to love you?” Her words were brave, her eyes were again steady, were again deep in his, but the red line of her mouth was tremulous.
“When will you know, when will you tell me that I am the man of your heart’s desire, Judith? I—I love you, Judith.”
“Must I tell you unasked? Might you not ask me now and see?”
Her white lids drooped over her tawny eyes, and just for an instant the red lips that were level with his met his.
But suddenly the girl drew back, withdrew her hands from his. She had not meant to yield so easily. She had not meant to give so much. She had not meant to yield at all until Cecil knew—until he knew—why, certain things that he must know before he could take what she so longed to give.
“I—I must speak, my cousin, there is something I must tell you,” she faltered, and no one would have known the trembling voice for that of Mistress Judith Ogilvie.
“Ah, sweetheart, speak, speak all you will,” cried Lindley. “Your voice is music in my ears. Say that you love me, say it over and over, for whatever else you say, whatever else you tell me, that is all I’ll hear.”