"I have thought over this matter by night and day," I replied slowly. "I cannot send you to Montreal, for I cannot trust these men. If I take you myself I shall lose six weeks out of the summer. Then it will be too late to accomplish anything. No, I cannot afford so much time. The summer is all too short as it is."
"You would marry me—marry me to get me out of the way—rather than lose six weeks of time!"
I rose. "Spare your scorn, mademoiselle. This is no joust of wits. I would sell everything—except the honor of my sword—rather than lose six weeks of time."
"Then you have a mission?"
"A self-sent one, mademoiselle."
"But you can come again next year."
"Next year will be too late."
She threw out her hands. "Monsieur, try me. Let me travel with you as a man. I will be a man. I will be Monsieur Starling in truth. Try me once more."
I took her hand. "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle," I said, "think a moment. Would I force you to this marriage—would I suggest it even—if it did not seem a necessity, a necessity for my own ends? For I must have my head and hands clear. It is a selfish view. I know that. It is crushingly selfish. But it is for a large purpose. I am a small man fitted to a great undertaking, and I can permit no divided interests. I need an unhampered mind."
She walked a few steps. "And if I should travel with you as a woman and yet not marry you," she asked over her shoulder, "what then?"