“Yes, what are you wondering, Bess?”
“Whether I can make you happy, I who am so poor and ignorant.”
“I have no doubts,” he said, “no doubts whatsoever.”
As they rode up to the terrace with the gardens and shrubberies dim and full of perfume under the night sky, Dick Wilson and Gladden came out from the porch. Wilson gave Jeffray a hearty hail, running forward with out-stretched hand, his eyes twinkling below the bandages that swathed his head.
“Egad, sir,” he said, “I am glad to see you alive. The wilful man has won his way.”
Jeffray had dismounted, but Bess was still on her horse looking down half shyly, half haughtily at the painter, as though mistrusting the good-will of her lover’s friend. Wilson, who had the instinct of chivalry quick and warm under his ugly exterior, went to her with a twinkle in his eyes, and, bowing in the most impressive fashion, took her hand and kissed it.
“May I ask your pardon, madam,” he said, quaintly, “for having proved such a dunderhead of a fellow this afternoon?”
Bess eyed him questioningly.
“You have been wounded?” she asked.
“A slight cut, a slight cut across the pate with a hanger. I am a clumsy fool at my weapons. May I have the honor of helping you to dismount?”