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Degas flushed, thankful for the close cropped beard he had taken to wearing which at least disguised his red face. One of his oldest complaints: fair hair, fair skin, transparent emotions.
"I... er... I rather meant that her eyes were doting, not yours, Eodwine. Though I do hope you will still forgive me for saying it..."
Like a pup who has been caught with the morning's bacon, Eodwine thought. Degas's face was a mask of contrition.
"As for your age, you cannot pretend that it is uncommon for an older man, one whose wanderlust has mellowed, to take a younger bride. And you also cannot pretend that age will deter Saeryn. Or at least it would not have before..."
He sighed heavily. "I only wish she would tell me what transpired while I was away. Yes," he said suddenly, "of course I will ask her forgiveness. And she need not even apologize to me. I am so grateful already that she is alive; more than that I dare not ask for fear of being counted amongst those who are too lucky in life."
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