She nodded, seated herself on an old stone seat from the garden of an ancient palace, where it had no doubt participated in many a fateful interview between man and woman.
“What are you thinking about?” inquired he.
“About our marriage.” She gave him a steady, penetrating look—the sort of look that always made him ill at ease with her and a little afraid of what marrying her might mean. “Do you want to marry me, Peter?” she asked.
“What rot!” exclaimed he. His glance shifted.
“You know you don’t,” rejoined the girl. “Your good sense tells you I’m not the sort of woman a man would enjoy being tied to unless she loved him. You don’t want to marry me, and I don’t want to marry you.”
“What’s the use of this kind of talk?” he remonstrated.
“Every use. Let’s refuse to marry.”
Peter looked strangely alarmed, glanced round as if in mortal dread lest they were being overheard. “If your father hears of this he’ll blame me,” he cried. “I tell you I want to marry you. I’m determined to marry you. I’ve given my word and you’ve given yours. And we’ll marry on the——”
“I ask you to release me,” interrupted the girl.
“I’ll not do it!” And visions of money pouring out and mortgages pouring in put a note of shrill hysteria into his usually heavy voice.