Swift crouched in front of her, almost sitting on his heels to peer into her face.
"Tiny," he suddenly cried, "you don't love him one bit!"
"But I think he loves me," she answered, hanging her head, for he held her hand.
"Not as I do, Tiny! Never as I have done! I have loved you all the time, and never anyone but you. And you—you care for me best; I see it in your eyes; I feel it in your hand. Don't you think that you, too, may have loved me all the time?"
"If I have," she murmured, "it has been without knowing it."
It was without knowing it that she trod upon the truth. Their voices were trembling.
"Darling," he whispered, "this would be home to you. It's the same old Wallandoon. You love it, I know; and I think—you love——"
She snatched her hand from his, and sprang to her feet. He, too, rose astounded, gazing on every side to see who was coming. But the plain was flecked only with straggling sheep, bleating to the troughs. His gaze came back to the girl. Her straw hat sharply shadowed her face like a highwayman's mask, her blue eyes flashing in the midst of it, and her lips below parted in passion.
"You? I hate you! I do consider myself bound, and you would make me false—you would tempt me through my love for the bush, for this place—you coward!"
Swift reddened, and there was roughness in his answer: