They turned round and began to wend their way again towards the Hall, in a silence that was positively painful to both.
"You are dreaming, Master Manners," she exclaimed, as they neared the narrow bridge which spans the Wye just outside the gates of Haddon.
"Come, sir, declare your thoughts; let me be your confessor, for I will shrive thee right easily, and the penance shall be pleasant enough, I assure thee. Now confess!"
"I was thinking of—of love," he stammered out.
"Love! then I forgive thee," she exclaimed with a beating heart, "'tis a common sin. Proceed, my son."
"I was thinking of a little poem."
"Oh!" That was a disappointing continuation.
"'Twas a verse of Sir Thomas Wyatt's. Shall I tell it thee?"
"'Hide nothing from me,' as Father Philip says," replied Doll, brightening up again, for she was well acquainted with the verse of that unfortunate nobleman, which was almost all on the subject of love. She thought she knew the verse which he would tell her, nor was she mistaken. Almost everyone knew that verse, even if they knew none other.
The young esquire fixed his eyes upon her, and began—