After a few seconds he spoke to her, his voice oddly unsteady, very deep.
"You're driving me mad, Daphne. Do you know that?"
"I--I'm sorry," she faltered, trying to shelter her tingling face in his
coat.
His arms were tense about her. "I want you more and more every day," he
said. "I don't know how to wait for you. How long is it to our wedding?"
"Three weeks and four days," she told him faintly.
He gave his low, quivering laugh, "What! You are counting the days too!
Daphne! My Daphne! Need we wait--all that time?"
Dinah's thumping heart gave a great start and seemed to stop. "Oh yes,"
she gasped desperately. "Yes, I couldn't possibly--be ready sooner."
He put his face down to hers, as one who breathes the essence of a
flower. "You are ready now," he said. "You will never be lovelier than
you are to-night."
She tried to laugh, but his lips were too near. Her voice quavered
piteously.
"Why do I wait for you?" he said, and in his words there beat a fierce
unrest. "Why am I such a fool? I lie awake night after night consumed
with the want of you. When I sleep, I am always chasing you, you
will-o'-the-wisp; and you always manage to keep just out of reach." His
arms tightened. His voice suddenly sank to a deep whisper. "Daphne! Shall
I tell you what I am going to do?"
"What?" panted Dinah.
"I am going to take you right away over the hills to-morrow to a place I
know of where it is as lonely as the Sahara, and we will have a picnic
there all to ourselves--all to ourselves, and make up for to-day.
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