“Anne!” he cried. “Sweet Anne Page!” the words came brokenly between tremulous laughter. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You will marry me, of course, because we love each other, because----” She put one hand on his shoulder, and so kept him at arm’s length. “I will never marry you,” she repeated. “If you won’t consent to let me stay as I suggest, I shall say good-bye to you now, and I will not see you again. “Remember René, you’re not talking to a girl. You’re dealing with a woman who knows her own mind, and will have this or nothing. If I stay we both have perfect freedom. I am old enough to do what I please with my life. And I please to do this. René,” for the first time the colour came to her cheeks, and her eyes wavered, “you’ll make me shy if I have to ask you so many times to let me stay.” She looked suddenly so like a child as she spoke, that in spite of his perplexed amazement, Dampierre smiled. He kissed her soft hair, and then her lips. “You’re adorable,” he murmured. “But you amazing woman, you’re an _enfant terrible_! What am I to do with you?” “Don’t you see how simple it is?” she asked. “I’m rich now, so I can stay as long as you--as long as I please.” She altered the pronoun hurriedly. “And you have plenty of money, too, René, haven’t you? I mean that we are each quite independent. It makes it all so easy.” He laughed again as the only expression of his otherwise inexpressible emotions. She was as guileless, as simple as a child. Yet she was proposing----Good God, what was she not proposing? And above all she meant what she proposed; meant it absolutely. He looked into her eyes, and knew that no words of his would move her. “But Anne, Anne!” he stammered. “You’re saying awful things. Not from my point of view, but as an Englishwoman. _Mon Dieu!_ as an Englishwoman with the fear of Mrs. Grundy if not the fear of God before her eyes!” She looked at him, and his words, which amazement and uncertainty had made flippant, died before the sadness of her glance. “You don’t understand,” she said. “Nobody troubles about me. Nobody has ever troubled. I have never been happy all my life. And now when I could have happiness without hurting any one, why must I give it up because of a world in which I have no concern?” She paused a moment, and looked at him uncertainly. “You think I ought to feel I’m doing wrong? Perhaps I ought. But I _don’t_ feel it, René. I should be doing wrong if I married you, because----” She left the sentence unfinished, forbearing to tell him that he would some day thank her for his freedom. “Don’t argue about it,” she said, smiling, though her eyes were full of tears. “It’s my last word. If you won’t agree, I shall go back to Dymfield to-morrow.” “No. Don’t let us waste time now, at any rate,” he exclaimed eagerly. “We shall have plenty of time to talk and argue. Just now I’m too absurdly happy!” He drew her down beside him on the sofa, and covered her eyes with kisses.