"But what does it mean if I do come?"
"I don't know. I'm not a prophet."
He put on no melodramatic airs. His manner was quiet and friendly still. "You're a very provoking woman." He smiled. "I hate to be abrupt—well, I don't think I have been—but this thing's got to be settled."
"Has it? Who says so? What is there to settle?"
"You're being tempestuous now." He threw her own word back at her, with a laugh. "And you know quite well what there is to settle." He looked at her stormy little face with love and tender amusement. But his answer he meant to have.
"Settle, settle, settle! How many thousand times have you used that word? I think I hate you, Sir Oliver."
"I begin to think myself that you don't love me. So I'd best be off on my business."
"Yes, I really think you had. And when you come back, perhaps we can consider——"
"Oh, dear me, no, we can't!"
She looked at him for an instant. Again he made her eyes dim. He hated himself at the moment, but it seemed to him that there was nothing to do but stick to his course. Else, whatever he felt now, he would feel to-morrow that she had fooled him. She sat looking very forlorn, her handkerchief clenched in her hand, ready to wipe away the tears. He went and leant over her.