She stared straight ahead, making no kind of response. He was left to wonder whether or not she had heard, and obliged to assume an air of calm he did not feel. A little of the red had slipped out of his complexion before they reached the end of the drive, but also his jaw had taken on its most dogged look, and as they all dismounted and began to stroll towards the hotel he said with the quiet deliberation of the man who means to have his way:
“Walk down to the little bridge with me, please. I must speak to you.”
“It is getting late,” she demurred.
“I shall not keep you long.”
They walked in silence, their feet slipping and slithering in the loose sand, until they reached the bridge; then stopped to lean on the low parapet and stare down at the water just below.
“You heard what I said in the car?” he asked.
Perhaps she thought he was addressing the fishes for she made no answer. Then very quietly he said again:
“I love you, Amber!”
There was a great stillness between them. Truly as the wise people of old held, to give a man the use of your name is to give him power over you! He felt that he had power over her and perhaps that was why her hand lying on the bridge rail trembled, though her voice was quite level.
“Why do you call me by that name, Mr Bettington?”