He sat very silent. "Then—then—you don't—er—return my feeling? You are not in love with me, as I am with you, Rona?" he wistfully demanded, at length.
After a pause, "I don't know," she replied.
He felt dashed and piqued, both at the same moment.
"I wonder if you have any idea of how cruel it is of you to say that?" he asked, half pleading, half annoyed.
"Oh, I don't want to be cruel," she hastily answered. "I want to be very kind to you, Mr. Vanston."
"Say Denzil—give me my name, Rona."
"Oh!" said Rona, quite as if the suggestion shocked her. He leaned forward, staring at her, taking in the beauties of her with thirsty eyes—the quality of her skin, the modeling of the corners of her lips, the bend of her lashes, the heaving of her throat under her embroidered muslin bodice.
"Why not?" he asked, in a low, hoarse voice. The voice warned Rona, for it was unnatural. She stood up. "It is chilly in the wind," she said, standing there, her face and, hair gilded by a long sun ray which struck upon her through the trees.
He sprang to his feet, and his eyes glittered. "Oh!" he said, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" He caught both her hands in his hot grasp. "You must tell me," he panted, "do you hear? You must tell me what you feel? Did you mean what you said, that you don't care for me? Oh, you couldn't mean that—Rona!"
He was close to her—so close that he could feel the contact of her slim form. Some instinct warned her that to move suddenly would provoke further demonstration. She grew white, and took his hand in her own. "Have I not asked you," she said, in a very still voice, "not to talk of this—yet?"