There was something masterful in the persistence with which he pressed the question. Sylvia had a feeling as of being held down and compelled to drink some strangely paralyzing draught.
She made a slight, half-scared movement and in a moment his hand released hers.
"You do object!" he said.
She clasped her hands tightly together. "Please don't say—or think—that! It is such a sudden idea, and—it's rather a wild one, isn't it?" Her breath came quickly. "If—if I agreed—and let the pretence go on—people would be sure to find out sooner or later. Wouldn't they?"
"I am not suggesting any pretence," he said.
"What do you mean then?" Sylvia said, compelling herself to speak steadily.
"I am asking you to marry me," he said, with equal steadiness.
"Really, do you mean? You are actually in earnest?" Her voice had a sharp quiver in it. She was trembling suddenly. "Please be quite plain with me!" she said. "Remember, I don't know you very well. I have got to get used to the ways out here."
"I am quite in earnest," said Burke. "You know me better than you knew the man you came out here to marry. And you will get used to things more quickly married to me than any other way. At least you will have an assured position. That ought to count with you."
"Of course it would! It does!" she said rather incoherently. "But—you see—I've no one to help me—no one to advise me. I'm on a road I don't know. And I'm so afraid of taking a wrong turning."