Part 87 (2/2)
”Horribly!” he sighed.
”Geoffrey!”
”Quiet and peace,” he explained, ”may hold such an infinitude of possibilities impossible of realisation to a husband who is bound by promises, that it is apt to be a little--trying.”
Hermione didn't speak but drew his hand to be caressed by the soft oval of a cheek and touched by the velvet of shy lips.
”And yet,” he went on, staring resolutely at the fire, ”I wouldn't change--this, for anything else the world could offer me!”
”Bear with me--a little longer, dear!” she murmured.
”As long as you will, Hermione--providing--”
”Well, my Geoffrey, dear?”
”That it is only--a little longer.”
”You don't think I'm very--silly, do you, dear?” she enquired, staring into the fire.
”No, not very!”
”Oh!” she said softly, glancing at him reproachfully. ”You don't think me--cruel?”
”Not very,” he answered, kissing her hand again.
”Dear Geoffrey, you don't think I'm very selfish, do you?” she questioned wistfully.
”No--never that!” he answered, keeping his gaze averted.
”Because if--”
”If?” said he.
”If it is hard for you--” the soft voice faltered.
”Yes, Hermione?”
”If you really think I'm--cruel and--silly, you--needn't wait--any longer--if you wish--”
His arms were about her, drawing her near, clasping her ever closer, and she held him away no more, but--beholding her wistful eyes, the plaintive droop of her vivid mouth, and all the voiceless pleading of her, he loosed her and turned away.
”I love you so much--Hermione, so much, that your will shall be my will.”
She rose, and leaning against the carved mantel stared down into the fire; when at last she spoke, there was a note in her voice he had never heard before,
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