“Yes,” he said soothingly.  “Yes, Bubbles?”

Poor Bill felt very uncomfortable.  He did not wish prim Miss Pegler to come in and find him sitting on Bubbles’ bed, when no one was yet up in the house.  These modern, unconventional ways were all very well, and he knew they often did not really mean anything, but still—­but still ...

“Did you ever hear of the King’s Serf?” asked Bubbles suddenly.

“The King’s Serf?” he repeated, bewildered.

“When the rope which was hanging some poor devil of a highwayman broke—­when the axe was too blunt to cut a robber rascal’s head off—­when a man being condemned to death survived by some extraordinary accident—­well, such a man became thereafter the King’s Serf.  He belonged to the King, body, soul, and spirit, and no one but the King could touch him.  He lost his identity.  He was above the law!”

Bubbles said all this very, very fast—­almost as if she had learnt it off by heart.

“What a curious thing,” said Bill slowly.

Bubbles had so many queer, out-of-the-way bits of knowledge.  She was always surprising him by the things she knew.  It was the more curious that she never seemed to open a book.

“Come a little nearer,” she ordered.  “You’re so far away, Bill!”

She spoke with a touch of imperious fretfulness, and he moved a little further up the bed.

“Nearer, nearer!” she cried; and then she suddenly sat up in bed, and flinging her arms round him, she laid her dark, curly head on his faithful heart.  “I want to tell you,” she whispered, “that from now onward I’m Bill Donnington’s Serf—­much more than that poor brute I’ve told you of was ever the King’s Serf.  For, after all, the King hadn’t cut the rope, or blunted the edge of the hatchet——­”

“Bubbles!” he exclaimed.  “Oh, Bubbles, d’you really mean that?”

“Of course I mean it!  What I gave I had, what I gained I lost, what I lost I gained.”

“What do you mean, darling?” he whispered.

“I mean that the moment that stupid doctor allows me to get up—­then you and I will skip off by ourselves, and we’ll say, ’Hullo, here’s a church!  Let’s go in and get married.’”

She waited a moment, but Bill Donnington said nothing.  He only held her closer to him.

“In the night,” went on Bubbles, “I was wondering if we’d be married in that strange old church near here, our church, the church with the animals.  And then I thought no, we wouldn’t do that, for I am not likely to want ever to come back here again.  So we’ll be married in London, in a City church, in the church where John Gilpin and his family went to what I suppose they called ‘worship.’  It’s there you will have to say you worship me, Bill!”

She lifted her head, and looked into his face.  “Oh, Bill,” she said, her voice trembling a little, “you do look happy!”

“I am happy, but I—­I can’t quite believe it,” he said slowly; “it’s too good to be true.”