"I don't know what you mean," said the girl indifferently. "Nor do I. Yet the feeling is here," and he touched his heart. "If I could only shape that feeling into words,"--he hesitated and blushed. "Well?" "I might be able to tell you much--Alice." "Why do you use my Christian name?" "Why not? We are man and woman on a hillside, and not over-civilised beings in a drawing-room. You are Alice: I am Julian. It is quite simple." "But too intimate," she objected, "you have known me only six months." "Do you reckon knowledge by Time?" "You have no knowledge: you confessed as much lately." Hardwick looked at her earnestly. "I have this much, that I know how deeply I love you, my dear!" and he took her hand gently between his palms. Alice let it lie there undisturbed, but did not return his pressure. For a few moments she looked straightly at the sunset. "I am sorry to hear you say that," was her calm remark when she did decide to speak. "Why?" "Because I can never love you!" "Love can create love," urged Julian, again pressing her hand and again receiving no answering caress. "Not between you and me. You may be fire, but I am not tow to catch alight." The flush had disappeared from her face, leaving it pure and white and calm to such a degree that the man dropped her hand. It was like holding a piece of ice, and he felt chilled by the aloofness of touch and look. "But you are a woman," he said roughly in his vexation, "you must know what love means." "I don't: really I don't." Alice hugged her knees and stared with the sublime quietness of an Egyptian statue at his perturbed countenance. As he did not answer, she continued to speak in a deliberate way, which showed that his proposal had not touched her heart in the least. "My mother died when I was born, and I had Dame Trevel in the village yonder as my foster-mother until I was ten years of age. Then my father sent me to a Hampstead boarding school for eleven years. I returned only twelve months ago to live at Tremore"--she nodded towards a long low grey house, which basked on a neighbouring hilltop like a sullen reptile in the sunshine. "But your father----?" "My father," interrupted the girl in a melancholy tone, "has no love for any one but himself. At times I think he hates me for causing the death of my mother by being born." "Surely not." "Well, you have seen my father. I leave you to judge." Hardwick was puzzled how to reply. "He is not a man who shows his feelings, you know," he said delicately. "I don't think he has any feelings to show," replied Alice indifferently. "I am used to his neglect, and so have schooled myself to be quietly agreeable without expecting any demonstrations of affection." Hardwick nodded. "I have noticed, when dining at Tremore, that you are more like well-bred acquaintances than father and daughter. Perhaps," he added in a dreamy tone, "that is what first made me fall in love with you."