quiver in his voice. 'Couldn't you—couldn't you find it possible to love me?'
I gazed out across the lawn with unseeing eyes, quite like the heroine in the story-books.
'No,' I said sadly, quite as if my heart were elsewhere. 'No, I'm afraid not.'
Then I got a panic. What if he should take me at my word, and never ask me again. Men are such fools. I dared not look round. But Lord Hendley was more sensible than that. He didn't give me any time to think about it. He had done it at last. He was beside me seizing my hands, and looking down into my face.
'Look up at me,' he said fiercely. 'Look up at me and say that again.'
He was crushing my hands, and I gloried in his strength and his flash of anger. He was roused at last. I lifted my eyes to his, and gave up everything.
'I can't,' I said.
For the next few minutes I don't remember much. I recollect Aunt Agatha saying that men who restrain themselves longest are always the most violent when they do let themselves go. My future husband must be one of that sort. It makes me kind of afraid at times. They say love casts out fear. But I'm not sure. There is something just delicious in being a wee bit afraid of the strength of the man you love.
We got calmer after a few minutes, and I simply had to think about my hair again. A woman always has to do that even at the greatest crises in
