"Don't you know why you feel as you do about this God-forsaken land, Tennys Huntingford?" he demanded, suddenly drawing very near to her, his burning eyes bent upon hers. "Don't you know why you are happy here?" She was confused and disturbed by his manner. That same peculiar flutter of the heart she had felt weeks ago on the little knoll attacked her sharply.
"I--I--I'm sure--I am happy just because I am, I dare say," she faltered, conscious of an imperative inclination to lower her eyes, but strangely unable to do so.
"You love this island because you love me," he whispered in her ear.
"No, no! It is not that! Please don't be foolish again, Hugh. You will make me very unhappy."
"But you do love me. You love me, and you do not know it," he said, thrilled with exultation. She looked at him wonderingly, a half scornful, half dubious smile flitting over her face.
"I will try to be patient with you. Don't you think I know my own mind?" she asked.
"No; you do not," he said vigorously. "Let me ask you a few questions, and I beg of you, for your own sake and mine, to answer them without equivocation. I'll prove to you that you love me."
"Who is to be the judge?" she asked merrily. She trembled and turned cold as he took her hand in his and--she was not merry.
"First, is there another man in the world that you would rather have here? Answer, dear." The blood mounted to her cheek at the term of endearment.
"Not one," she answered firmly, trying to smile.