“Only what?—do you really?—only what?” A silence. Then, “Only what?” he asked again.
“Only I was so afraid it would never occur to you!”
There was no one on the wide, bare sands save the discreet artist—their faces were very near.
“We shall be very, very poor, I’m afraid,” he said presently.
“I can go on teaching.”
“No”—his voice was decided—“my wife shan’t work—at least not anywhere but in our home. You won’t mind playing at love in a cottage for a bit, will you? I shall get on now I’ve something to work for. Oh, my dear, thank God I’ve enough for the cottage! When will you marry me? We’ve nothing to wait for, no relations to consult, no settlements to draw up. All that’s mine is thine, lassie.”
“And all that’s mine—Oh! Stephen!”
For, with a scattering of shingle, a man dropped from the sea-wall two yards from them.
The situation admitted of no disguise, for Miss Rainham’s head was on Mr Dornington’s shoulder. They sprang up.
