"Oh, nothing," I return, awkwardly, failing miserably as I come to the point; "nothing to signify; another time will do. You are busy now. What are you writing, 'Duke?"
"I was drawing out my will," he replies, smiling. "I thought it better to do so before leaving home for—for an indefinite time. No one knows what may happen. I am glad you have come in just now, as you may as well hear what I have written and see if you wish anything altered. Now listen."
"I will not!" I cry petulantly. "I hate wills and testaments, and all that kind of thing. I won't listen to a word of it; and—and I hope with all my heart I shall die before you."
"My dear Phyllis," then quickly, "you are excited; you have something on your mind. What did you come to me for just now, Phyllis? tell me."
Now or never. I am conscious of a chill feeling at my heart, but I close one hand over the other tightly and, thus supported, go on bravely.
"Yes, I did come to tell you something. That—that I love you. And oh, 'Duke—if you leave me again, you will kill me."
Here I burst into a perfect passion of weeping, and cover my face with my hands.
There is not a movement in the room, not a sound, except my heavy bursting sobs. Then some one puts an arm round me, and presses my head down upon his breast, I look up into Marmaduke's face. He is white as death; and though he is evidently putting a terrible restraint upon himself, I can see that his lips, beneath his fair moustache, are trembling.
"You are tired, Phyllis, over-fatigued," he says, soothingly. "Lie still here, and you will be better presently."
"It is not that," I cry passionately, "not that at all. Oh, Marmaduke, hear me now: do not punish me for my past coldness. I love you with all my heart; try to believe me."