“My dear Chris!” he said.  “And you take things like that to heart!”

“You see, they are true!” murmured Chris.

“They are not true.  But all the same”—­he began to smile again—­“I can’t for the life of me imagine why you won’t marry me and get it over.”

“No?” Chris suddenly looked up again; she was clinging to his arm very tightly with both hands.  “It does seem rather silly, doesn’t it?” she said, with resolute eyes raised to his.  “Trevor, I—­I’ll think about it.”

“Do!” he said.  “Think about it quietly and sanely.  And don’t let yourself get frightened at nothing.  As you say, it’s silly.”

“But you won’t—­press me?” she faltered.  “You—­you promised!”

“I keep my promises, Chris,” he said.

But he was frowning slightly as he said it, and she was quick to note the fact.  “Ah! don’t be vexed with me,” she pleaded very earnestly.  “I know I’m foolish.  I can’t help it.  It’s the way I’m made.”

She was on the verge of tears, and at once his hand closed with a warm and comforting pressure upon hers.  “Chris!  Chris!  When will you learn not to be afraid of me?” he said.  “I am not vexed with you, child.  I am only wondering.”

“Wondering?” she said.

“Wondering if I had better go away for a spell,” he answered.

“Go away!” she echoed blankly.

“And give you time to know your own mind,” he said.

“Trevor!” She turned suddenly white, so white that he thought for an instant that she was in physical pain; and then, feeling her clinging to him, he understood.  “Oh, no!” she said vehemently.  “No, no!  Trevor, you won’t?  Say you won’t!  I—­I couldn’t bear that.  Please, Trevor!”

“My dear,” he said, “I shall never go away while you want me.  But the question is, do you want me?”

“I do!” she declared, almost passionately.  “I do!”

“You are quite sure?” He looked suddenly deep into her eyes, so suddenly that she could not avoid the look.

She quivered under it, but he did not release her.  He searched her upturned face closely, persistently, relentlessly, till, with a movement of entreaty, she stretched up one hand and tremblingly covered his eyes.

“I am—­quite sure,” she said in a whisper.  “And I—­I don’t like you to look at me like that.”

He stood still, suffering himself to be so blinded, till, gaining confidence, she took her hand away.

“You won’t ask me again, please, Trevor?” she said.

He smiled at her very kindly, but his voice, as he made answer, was grave.  “No, dear, I shall never ask you that again.”

She took his arm once more with evident relief.  “Let us go up to the house,” she said.  “I expect Max is there already, waiting for us.”

So they went up the weed-grown drive, and presently came into full sight of the house.  It was a large, rambling building of stone, some of it very ancient, most of it covered with immense stacks of ivy.  Another pair of iron gates divided park from garden, and as they approached these a lounging figure sauntered into view and came through to meet them.