“I don’t refuse,—I just don’t remember.”
“Barry! Do remember. You must!”
After a moment’s silence, he turned and met her gaze squarely, saying, “I have no recollection. Don’t ask me that again.”
Natalie gave him a pained, despairing look and without a word, turned their footsteps toward the Italian gardens, the beautiful landscape planned and laid out by a genius. Down the stone steps they went and paused in the shadow of a clump of carved box. Then Barry took her in his arms. “Dear little girl,” he breathed in her ear, “don’t be afraid. It will all come out right. But we don’t want the truth known. Now, don’t give way,” as a sob shook Natalie’s quivering shoulders. “You mustn’t talk or think another word about it. Obey me, now, take your mind right off the subject! Think of something pleasanter,—think of me!”
“I can’t very well help that,—when you’re so close!” and the lovely deep blue eyes smiled through unshed tears.
“You heavenly thing! Natalie, have you any idea how beautiful you are?”
“If I am, I am glad, for your sake. I needn’t ever pose again, need I, Barry?”
“Well, I guess No! A photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the nearest I shall ever let you come to a portrait! Dear, when will you marry me?”
“Oh, I can’t marry you! I can’t—I can’t!”
“Then what are you doing here? This is no place for a girl who isn’t to be my wife!” and Barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed jacket.