But, as I don't at all feel sure what it is I do mean, I break down here ignominiously and relapse into awkward silence.
"Of course not," he answers. "I quite understand." But his voice has lost all its enthusiasm, and somehow his words drag. "Had you not better come back to the house, Phyllis? You will catch cold without your hat and in that light dress."
I am clothed in white muslin, a little open at the throat, and with my arms half bare. A piece of blue ribbon defines my waist, a bow of the same hue is in my hair; the locket that contains his face is round my neck; a great crimson rose lies upon my bosom.
"I am not cold," I reply: "and I am afraid to face papa."
We are separated now, and I stand alone, gazing down into the rippling stream that runs noisily at my feet. Already two or three bright stars are twinkling overhead and shine up at me, reflected from below. Mr. Carrington lets the distance widen between us while regarding me I feel rather than see—with moody discontented eyes.
"Phyllis," he says, presently, in a low tone, "it seems to me a horrible thing that the idea of your marriage should be so distasteful to you—-"
"No, no; not distasteful," I interrupt, with deprecation.
"Don't say 'no' if you mean 'yes.' Put my feelings out of the question, and tell me honestly if you are unhappy about it."
"I am not. It does not make me more unhappy to marry you than to marry any one else."
"What an answer!" exclaims Marmaduke, with a groan. "Is that all the consolation you can offer me?"