Doubtless this was due largely to what was pending. That afternoon he was to have his long anticipated interview with the Marquise, and would perhaps learn what might affect his whole life. On the other hand, each believed that nothing would be revealed which was not of the past solely.
Idly, Ynys began to question her companion about the previous night. What had he done, since he had not slept; had he read, or dreamed at the window, or gone out, as had once been his wont on summer nights, to walk in the cypress alley or along the grassy dunes? Had he heard a nightingale singing in the moonlight? Had he noticed the prolonged screaming of the peacocks—unusually prolonged, now that she thought of it, Ynys added.
"I wonder, dear, if you would love me whatever happened—whatever I was, or did?"
It was an inconsequent question. She looked up at him, half perturbed, half pleased.
"Yes, Alan."
"But do you mean what you say, knowing that you are not only using a phrase?"
"I have no gift of expression, dearest. Words come to me without their bloom and their fragrance, I often think. But ... Alan, I love you."
"That is sweetest music for me, Ynys, my fawn. All words from you have both bloom and fragrance, though you may not know it, shy flower. But tell me again, do you mean what you say, absolutely?"
"Absolutely. In every way, in all things, at all times. Dear, how could any thing come between us? It is possible, of course, that circumstances might separate us. But nothing could really come between us. My heart is yours."
"What about Andrik de Morvan?"