"How did you know I had anything in my mind?" he asked. "Is it not
enough reason for my coming that you should be here?"

She laughed softly, with a pleasant scornfulness.

"I read you like a printed book," she said. "What else are women's wits
given them for?"

He fell to stroking her hand again at that, but she drew it away.

"Not until you have told me," she said.

So then he told her.

It was a long tale, for it began as far ago as last August, when his
father had come back from giving evidence before the justices at Derby
on a matter of witchcraft, and had been questioned again about his
religion. It was then that Robin had seen moodiness succeed to anger,
and long silence to moodiness. He told the tale with a true lover's art,
for he watched her face and trained his tone and his manner as he saw
her thoughts come and go in her eyes and lips, like gusts of wind across
standing corn; and at last he told her outright what his father had said
to him on St. Stephen's night, and how he himself had kept silence.

Marjorie's face was as white as a moth's wing when he was finishing, and
her eyes like sunset pools; but she flamed up bright and rosy as he
finished.

"You kept silence!" she cried.