"Dear, am I to take silence for consent?" he persists, as though talking to a petulant child who is going to yield, he knows. "I asked you is it to be or not to be?"
"Not."
She outdoes his usual laconics in this specimen of brevity. It is fully a minute before he recovers from his astonishment enough to laugh:
"Don't jest with me, Lulu, I am in earnest."
"So am I."
For answer he lifts her face and scrutinizes it closely. The soft gaze meets his—half-happy, half-grieved—like a doubtful child's.
"You are not in earnest, Lulu. You do love me—you will be my wife?"
"I cannot."
He stops still under a tall myrtle and puts his arm around her slim, girlish waist.