"Is it? Ah, well, you do love me. That's all that matters—really."
She stared at him with suddenly widening eyes. Then she, too, smiled a tender, shy smile that still was full of trouble.
"I'm afraid—I do," she said. "But I didn't mean you to know——"
"Afraid?"
Hendrie's smile was good to see. But it passed quickly, and he went on in the manner of a man always accustomed to dictate.
"Now listen, Mon. We are going to be married without unnecessary delay. How soon can you be ready?"
In a moment Monica realized the utter folly of what she had done. In a moment it swept over her, threatening and almost paralyzing her faculties. She paled. Then a deep flush leaped into her cheek, and, in a fever of apprehension, she pleaded for a respite.
"No, no, not yet," she cried, with a sudden energy which quite startled her lover. "I cannot marry you until—until—— You see," she blundered on, "there are so many things. I—I have responsibilities. There are——"
Hendrie mercifully broke in upon her, and perhaps saved her from betraying in her hysterical apprehension those very things she wished to keep from him.
"Don't be scared, Mon," he said quickly. "It's for you to say. It's right up to you. I shan't rush you. See. Think it over. I've got to go west to-morrow. Guess I'll be away a week. Say, this day week. You'll get it all fixed by then. I'll get right back and you can tell me when you'll marry me. You see, I just want you—whenever you're ready."