"They are very sweet, Roger—are they from home—from Dene, I mean? Smell!"
She held out her hands to him.
He caught them in his own. The red petals fluttered noiselessly to the ground.
"If what, Alwynne?" he insisted.
"Oh, Roger! Do you really care—so much?"
"Yes, dear," he said soberly, "so much."
Alwynne looked up at him anxiously. She was very conscious of the big warm hands that held hers so firmly. She wished that he would not look so intent and grave; he made her feel frightened and unhappy. No—not frightened, exactly. There was something strong and serene about him, that upheld her, even when she opposed him; but certainly, unhappy. She realised suddenly how immensely she liked him—how entirely his nature satisfied hers.
"Oh, Roger!" she said wistfully. "I do like you. It isn't that I wouldn't like to marry you."
His face lit up.
"Would—liking awfully—do, Roger? Would it be fair? Must one be in love like a book?"