Yes, she WOULD make up for it, bigly, bigly, and he should be happy, this boy-man who was a knight.
And it was of Martin that Tootles, poor, little, unlucky Tootles, thought also.

All her life she would have something to which to look back, something precious and beautiful, and his name, stamped upon her heart, would go down with her to the grave.
And they stayed there, in silence, holding hands, until the last touch of color had gone out of the sky and the evening air sighed and moved on and the night climbed slowly over the dim horizon.

They might have been sisters.
And then Joan rose in a sort of panic.

"I must go," she said nervously, forgetting that she had grown up.

"Good night, Fairy." Tootles stood up too.