She shook her head, resting her fingers for an instant upon his hand. "I don't believe you could frighten me if you tried," she answered.
He raised his eyebrows with his characteristic blithe interrogation, "Well, I shouldn't like to try, that's all."
"I give you leave—my courage is my shield."
"But I don't want to frighten you." His voice was softer than she had ever heard it. "We aren't afraid of those we love, you know."
"Why should I love you?" she enquired gayly.
His pleasant irony was in his laugh. "Because you can't help yourself—you're obliged to—it's your fate."
She frowned slightly. "I have no fate except the one I make for myself."
He bent toward her and this time his hand closed with determination upon hers. "Well, you may make me what you please," he said.
Her hand fluttered like an imprisoned bird in his grasp, but he held it with a pressure which sent the blood tingling sharply to the ends of her fingers. His strength hurt her and yet she found a curious pleasure in the very acuteness of her sensations.
"There's no use fighting," he said with a short laugh, "we can't help ourselves. You'll have to marry me, so you may as well give in."