She turned to him impulsively.
"Roger—I've missed you awfully since I came back. It was quite absurd, when I'd got Clare all to myself. But I did. It was so nice seeing you. I was simply miserable yesterday, and then you turned up and were perfectly sweet. It cheered me up. And then you turned horrid. All the evening you were horrid. And now you're horrid, quarrelling and arguing. Why can't you be nice to me always?"
She was very close to him. Her hand was on the arm of his chair. Her skirts swished against his knee.
"Alwynne, you're too illogical for a school-marm. Haven't you been bullying me since I came on account of yesterday?"
"Roger," she said unsteadily, "don't tease me. I do so want to be friends with you."
He put his arms about her as she stood beside him, and looked up at her, with laughing, tender eyes.
"And I do so want to marry you. Why not, Miss Le Creevy? Let's be a comfortable couple."
She struggled away from him.
"No, Roger! No. No. I don't want to get married. Why aren't you content to be friends, as we were at Dene? Friendship's a lot. If I can see you very often, and write to you twice a week, and tell you everything—I should be awfully content. Wouldn't you?"
He looked at her with amusement.