His horror-struck, almost tearful voice gave her a pang of self-reproach, as if she had struck some defenceless dumb animal. “Well, there were things in them that I did not understand.” “But I could make you understand them,” he said, with a sudden self-assertion which startled her. The weakest man is, after all, a man--so far as women are concerned. “I think you had better not,” she said, hurrying her steps. But he refused to alter his pace, and he disregarded her warning. “They meant,” he said, “that I wanted you to know that I love you.” There was a little pause. Dora was struck dumb by a chill sense of foreboding. It was like a momentary glance into a future full of trouble. “I am sorry,” she said, “for that. I hope--that you may find that it is a mistake.” “But it is not a mistake. I don't see why it should be one.” Dora paused. She was afraid to strike. She did not know yet that it is less cruel to be cruel at once. “It is best to look at these things practically,” she said. “And if we look at it practically we shall find that you and I are not at all likely to be happy together.” “However I look at it, I only see that I should never be happy without you.” “Then, Arthur, you are not looking at it practically.” “No, and I don't want to,” he replied doggedly. “That is a mistake. A little bit of life may not be practical, but all the rest of it is; and for the gratification of that little bit, there is all the rest to be lived through.” Arthur looked puzzled. He rearranged the orchid in his coat before replying. He had found time to think of the orchid. “I don't understand all that,” he said. “I only know that I love you, and that I should be miserable without you. Besides, if that little bit is love--I suppose you admit there is such a thing as love?” Dora winced. She was looking through the trees across the peaceful evening river. “Yes,” she answered gently. “I suppose so.” Arthur Agar had been brought up in an atmosphere of futile discussion, but he had never wanted anything in vain. There are women--fools--who dare to bring up children thus in a world where wanting in vain is the chief characteristic of daily life. Arthur was ready enough to go on discussing his future thus, but never doubted that it would all come to his desire in the end. He was like a woman in so much as he failed to understand an argument which he could not meet. They walked on amidst the flowering shrubs, and Dora was filled with a disquieting sense of having failed to convince him. “I do not want to hurry you,” said Arthur presently, with a maddening equanimity. “You can give me your answer some other time.” “But I have given it now.” Arthur was engaged in taking off his hat to a passing lady, and made no acknowledgment of this. “Everybody at home would be pleased,” he observed, after a pause occupied by the adjustment of his hat. “They all want it.”