"Well, you know," Brook answered as they walked along towards the dazzling green light that filled the door, "to tell the truth, between one thing and another--" He did not complete the sentence. "Yes?" said Clare, sweetly. "Between one thing and another--what were you going to say?" Brook did not answer as they went out into the hot, blossom-scented air, under the spreading vines. "Do you mean to say it's cooler here than indoors?" asked the young girl in a tone of resignation. "Oh, it's much cooler! There's a breeze at the end of the walk." "The sea is like oil," observed Clare. "There isn't the least breath." "Well," said Brook, "it can't be really hot, because it's only the first week in June after all." "This isn't Scotland. It's positively boiling, and I wish I hadn't come out. Beware of first impulses--they are always right!" But she glanced sideways at his face, for she knew that something was in the air. She was not sure what to expect of him just then, but she knew that there was something to expect. Her instinct told her that he meant to speak and to say more than he had yet said. It told her that he was going to ask her to marry him, then and there, in the blazing noon, under the vines, but her modesty scouted the thought as savouring of vanity. At all events she would prevent him from doing it if she could. "Lady Johnstone seems to like this place," she said, with a sudden effort at conversation. "She says that she means to make all sorts of expeditions." "Of course she will," answered Brook, in a half-impatient tone. "But, please--I don't want to talk about my mother or the landscape. I really did want to speak to you, because I can't stand this sort of thing any longer, you know." "What sort of thing?" asked Clare innocently, raising her eyes to his, as they reached the end of the walk. It was very hot and still. Not a breath stirred the young vine-leaves overhead, and the scent of the last orange-blossoms hung in the motionless air. The heat rose quivering from the sea to southward, and the water lay flat as a mirror under the glory of the first summer's day. They stood still. Clare felt nervous, and tried to think of something to say which might keep him from speaking, and destroy the effect of her last question. But it was too late now. He was pale, for him, and his eyes were very bright. "I can't live without you--it comes to that. Can't you see?" The short plain words shook oddly as they fell from his lips. The two stood quite still, each looking into the other's face. Brook grew paler still, but the colour rose in Clare's cheeks. She tried to meet his eyes steadily, without feeling that he could control her. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm very sorry." "You sha'n't say that," he answered, cutting her words with his, and sharply. "I'm tired of hearing it. I'm glad I love you, whatever you do to me; and you must get to like me. You must. I tell you I can't live without you."