Sara smiled a little wistfully.

“I wish it were,” she said.  “But please be serious, Tim dear—­”

“How can I be?” he interrupted joyfully.  “When the woman I love tells me that she’ll marry me, do you suppose I’m going to pull a long face about it?”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her with all the impetuous fervour of his two-and-twenty years.  At the touch of his warm young lips, her own lips whitened.  For an instant, as she rested in his arms, she was stabbed through and through by the memory of those other arms that had held her as in a vice of steel, and of stormy, passionate kisses in comparison with Tim’s impulsive caress, half-shy, half-reverent, seemed like clear water beside the glowing fire of red wine.

She drew herself sharply out of his embrace.  Would she never forget—­would she be for ever remembering, comparing?  If so, God help her!

“No,” she said quietly.  “You needn’t pull a long face over it.  But—­but marriage is a serious thing, Tim, after all.”

“My dear”—­he spoke with a sudden gentle gravity—­“don’t misunderstand me.  Marriage with you is the most serious and wonderful and glorious thing that could ever happen to a man.  When you’re my wife, I shall be thanking God on my knees every day of my life.  All the jokes and nonsense are only so many little waves of happiness breaking on the shore.  But behind them there is always the big sea of my love for you—­the still waters, Sara.”

Sara remained silent.  The realization of the tender, chivalrous, worshiping love this boy was pouring out at her feet made her feel very humble—­very ashamed and sorry that she could give so little in return.

Presently she turned and held out her hands to him.

“Tim—­my Tim,” she said, and her voice shook a little.  “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

CHAPTER XV

THE NAME OF DURWARD

The Durwards received the news of their son’s engagement to Sara with unfeigned delight.  Geoffrey was bluffly gratified at the materialization of his private hopes, and Elisabeth had never appeared more captivating than during the few days that immediately followed.  She went about as softly radiant and content as a pleased child, and even the strange, watchful reticence that dwelt habitually in her eyes was temporarily submerged by the shining happiness that welled up within them.

She urged that an early date should be fixed for the wedding, and Sara, with a dreary feeling that nothing really mattered very much, listlessly acquiesced.  Driven by conflicting influences she had burned her boats, and the sooner all signs of the conflagration were obliterated the better.

But she opposed a quiet negative to the further suggestion that she should accompany the Durwards to Barrow Court instead of returning to Monkshaven.

“No, I can’t do that,” she said with decision.  “I promised Doctor Dick I would go back.”