"I didn't mean to speak," went on the man, rapidly. "I know you have heavy troubles to face. But I wish to help you. If you would accept me as your husband, if you would lean upon me through life, I would do all that I could to save you from being worried."
Under the shadow of the trees, a stone's-throw from the white gate of Rose Cottage, Mildred stood still, her hands clasped before her. A shaft of light piercing the leafage shed its radiance on her beautiful face, and Eustace put a constraint on himself. Under his breath he quoted the Arabic proverb: "Blessed be Allah who made beautiful woman."
"Eustace, I never thought of this!"
"And you are angry?"
"No--no. I'm not exactly angry. But--"
"You love me, then--you love me!" She could feel his breath on her cheek, and shrank away from the passion expressed in his deep voice.
"I am not angry, but I don't love you. Wait!" She flung up her hand as she heard his sigh. "I like you--oh, yes, I like you more than anyone I ever met."
"More than Darrel?"
"Mr. Darrel; I don't care a bit for him. I wish you wouldn't talk so." She stamped her foot. "You know how troubled I am about poor Walter's death, and we were getting on so nicely."
"You and Walter?"