Part 32 (1/2)

”_You_? O Philidor!”

She turned away from him and looked up at the sky.

”I--I mean it,” he repeated. ”I think you had better.”

He sought her hand and she trembled under his touch.

”Fate has thrown us together--twice. Its intention is obvious. Let Fate look after the rest--”

”You, Philidor. Oh--”

She buried her head in her arms still quivering, but he only held her hand more tightly.

”Don't child. I did not mean to frighten you. I would not hurt you for anything in the world. I thought you needed me--”

At that she straightened quickly, turned a flushed face toward him and he saw that she was shaking, not with sobs, but with merriment.

”O Philidor--_such_ a wooing! You'd marry me because I need you. Was ever a dependent female in such a position!” And she began laughing again, her whole figure shaking. ”I need you--forsooth! How do you know I do? Have I told you so?” she asked scornfully.

”You need me,” he repeated doggedly.

”And that is why I should marry you? You who preach the gospel of sincerity and love for love's sake?”

”I--I love you,” he stammered.

But she only laughed at him the more.

”_You_. You wear your pa.s.sion lightly. _Such_ a tempestuous wooing!

You ask me to marry you because you fear I might do worse--because you believe that I'm irresponsible, and that without you I'll end in spiritual beggary. I appreciate your motives. They're large, ingenuous and heroic. Thanks. Love is not a matter of expediency or marriage a search for a guardian. If they were, _mon ami_, I should have long ago married my Trust Company. _You_--John Markham!”

He sat silent under her mockery, his long fingers clasped over his knees, his gaze upon the field below them, his mind recalling unpleasantly a similar incident in his unromantic career. Hermia had stopped laughing, had left him suddenly and was now picking one of Pre Gu?gou's yellow roses. Her irony had cut him to the quick, as Olga's had, her mockery dulled his wits and rendered him incapable of reply, but curiously enough he now felt neither anger nor chagrin at her contempt--only a deep dismay that he had spoken the words that had risen unbidden to his lips, that placed in jeopardy the joy of their fellows.h.i.+p which had owed its very existence to the free, unsentimental character of their relations. He knew that, however awkwardly he had expressed it, he had spoken the truth. He loved her, had loved her since Thimble Island, when she had spoiled his foreground by eliminating every detail of foreground and background by becoming both. Since then to him she had always been Joy, Gayety, Innocence, Enchantment and he adored her in secret.

Since they had met in France he had guarded the secret carefully--often by an air of indifference which fitted him well, a relic of his years of seclusion, and a native awkwardness which was always more or less in evidence before women. Whatever his secret misgivings, he had blessed the opportunity which chance and her own wild will had thrown in his way. And now--she would leave him, of course. There was nothing left for her to do.

Slowly, fearfully, he raised his eyes until she came within the range of their vision, first to her shoes, then to her stockings, her skirt, gaudy jacket and at last met her eyes, which were smiling at him saucily over the rosebud which she was holding to her lips. But he only sat glowering stupidly at her.

”O Philidor!” she cried. ”You look just as you did on the night when I slipped down through the pergola.”

”Hermia!” He rose and approached her. ”I forbid you.”

She retreated slowly, brandis.h.i.+ng the blossom beneath his nose.

”Without--er--the face powder!”

”You have no right to speak of that.”

”Oh, haven't I? You've just given it to me.”

”How?”