"No!" she cried and struggling to her feet, faced him across the remains of the luncheon. "No, it would not be playing the game. I have my work to do, and I'll do it alone. It would be like quitting—like calling for help before I am beaten. This is my work—not yours, this vindication of my father!"
"But think," interrupted Bethune, "you will not let such Quixotic ideals stand between us and happiness! You have your right to happiness, and so have I, and in the end 'twill be the same, your father's name will be cleared of any suspicion of unworthiness."
"It is my work," Patty repeated, stubbornly, "and besides, I do not think I love you. I do not know——"
"Ah, but you will love me!" cried Bethune. "Such love as mine will not be denied!" The black eyes glowed, and he took a step toward her, but the girl drew away.
"Not now—not yet! Stop!" At the command Bethune recoiled slightly, and the arms that had been about to encircle the girl, fell slowly to his sides. Patty had suddenly drawn herself erect and looked him eye for eye: and as she looked, from behind the soft glow of the velvet eyes, leaped a wolfish gleam—a glint of baffled rage, a flash of hate. In a moment it was gone and the man's lips smiled.
"Pardon," he said, "for the moment I forgot I have not the right." The voice had lost its intense timbre, and sounded dull, as if held under control only by a mighty effort of will. And in that moment a strange fear of him took possession of the girl, so that her own voice surprised her with its calm.
"I must be going, now."
Bethune bowed. "I will saddle your horse, while you clear up the table." He nodded toward the napkin spread upon the grass with the remains of the luncheon upon it. "My way takes me within a short distance of your cabin; may I ride with you?" he asked a few moments later, as he led her horse, bridled and saddled, to his own.
"Why certainly. I should be glad to have you. And we can talk."
"Of love?"