Miriam was indignant at anybody's forcing the issues between them. She had been furious with her own father for suggesting to Paul, laughingly, that he knew why he came so much.
"Who says?" she asked, wondering if her people had anything to do with it. They had not.
"Mother—and the others. They say at this rate everybody will consider me engaged, and I ought to consider myself so, because it's not fair to you. And I've tried to find out—and I don't think I love you as a man ought to love his wife. What do you think about it?"
Miriam bowed her head moodily. She was angry at having this struggle. People should leave him and her alone.
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Do you think we love each other enough to marry?" he asked definitely. It made her tremble.
"No," she answered truthfully. "I don't think so—we're too young."
"I thought perhaps," he went on miserably, "that you, with your intensity in things, might have given me more—than I could ever make up to you. And even now—if you think it better—we'll be engaged."
Now Miriam wanted to cry. And she was angry, too. He was always such a child for people to do as they liked with.