Slowly Wingarde turned and looked at the bent, hopeless figure of the girl in the chair.  He still held indifferently between his fingers the spray of white blossom for which he had made request.

He did not speak.  Yet, as if in obedience to an unuttered command, the girl lifted her head and looked up at him.  Her eyes were full of misery and indecision.  They wavered beneath his steady gaze.  Slowly, still moving as if under compulsion, she rose and stood before him, white and slim as a flower.  She was quivering from head to foot.

The man still waited.  But after a moment he put out his hand silently.

She did not touch it, choosing rather to lean upon the balustrade of the balcony for support.  Then at last she spoke, in a whisper that seemed to choke her.

“I will marry you,” she said—­“for your money.”

“I thought you would,” Wingarde said very quietly.

He stood looking down at her bent head and white shoulders.  There were sparkles of light in her hair that shone as precious metal shines in ore.  Her hands were both fast gripped upon the ironwork on which she leant.

He took a step forward and was close beside her, but he did not again offer her his hand.

“Will you answer my original question?” he said.  “I asked—­when?”

In the moonlight he could see her shivering, shivering violently.  She shook her head; but he persisted.

His manner was supremely calm and unhurried.

“This week?” he said.

She shook her head again with more decision.

“Oh, no—­no!” she said.

“Next?” he suggested.

“No!” she said again.

He was looking at her full and deliberately, but she would not look at him.  She was quaking in every limb.  There was a pause.  Then Wingarde spoke again.

“Why not next week?” he asked.  “Have you any particular reason?”

She glanced at him.

“It would be—­so soon,” she faltered.

“What difference does that make?” A very strange smile touched his grim lips.  “Having made up your mind to do something disagreeable, do you find shirking till the last moment makes it any easier—­any more palatable?  Surely the sooner it’s over—­”

“It never will be over,” she broke in passionately.  “It is for all my life!  Ah, what am I saying?  Mr. Wingarde”—­she turned towards him, her face quivering painfully—­“be patient with me!  I have given my promise.”

The smile on his face deepened into something that closely resembled a sneer.

“How long do you want me to wait?” he said.  “Fifty years?”

She drew back sharply.  But almost instantly he went on speaking.

“I will yield a point,” he said, “if it means so much to you.  But, you know, the wedding-day will dawn eventually, however remote we make it.  Will you say next month?”

The girl’s eyes wore a hunted look, but she kept them raised with desperate resolution.  She did not answer him, however.  After a moment he repeated his question.  His face had become stern.  The lines about his mouth were grimly resolute.