I should have hated the place then, I think. But
I should like--" Her voice trailed off dreamily, her eyes on the hazy
Highwoods.
Sir Redmond watched her, his eyes a-shine; Beatrice in this mood was
something to worship. He was almost afraid to speak, for fear she would
snuff out the tiny flame of hope which her half-finished sentence had
kindled. He leaned forward, his face eager.
"Beatrice, only say you will go--with me, dear!"
Beatrice started; for the moment she had forgotten him. Her eyes kept to
the hills. "Go--to England? One trip at a time, Sir Redmond. I have been
here only ten days, and we came for three months. Three months of
freedom in this big, glorious place."
"And then?" His voice was husky.
"And then--freckle lotions by the quart, I expect."
Sir Redmond got upon his feet, and he was rather white around the
mouth.
"We Englishmen are a stubborn lot, Miss Beatrice. We won't stop
fighting until we win."
"We Yankees," retorted she airily, "value our freedom above everything
else. We won't surrender it without fighting for it first."
He caught eagerly at the lack of finality in her tones. "I don't want to
take your freedom, Beatrice. I only want the right to love you."
"Oh, as for that, I suppose you may love me as much as you please--only
so you don't torment me to death talking about it.
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