“Yes. Yes, I can't tell you--I must not tell you how much I want you. And your aunt--she wants you to come. She is here, too. She will tell you.” Her manner changed once more. The tone in which she spoke was different. There were no signs of the wavering which I had noticed--or hoped I noticed. “No,” she said. “No. I shall not see my aunt. And I must not talk with you any longer. I asked you not to follow me here. You did it, in spite of my asking. Now, unless you wish to drive me away from here, as you did from Paris, you will leave me and not try to see me again. Oh, don't you see--CAN'T you see how miserable you are making me? And yet you talk of my happiness!” “But you aren't happy here. ARE you happy?” “I am happy enough. Yes, I am happy.” “I don't believe it. Are these Crippses kind to you?” “Yes.” I didn't believe that, either, but I did not say so. Instead I said what I had determined to say, the same thing that I should have said before, in Mayberry and in Paris--if I could have mustered the courage and decency to say it. “Frances,” I said, “there is something else, something which may have a bearing on your happiness, or may not, I don't know. The night before you left us, at Mayberry, Herbert Bayliss came to me and asked my permission to marry you, if you were willing. He thought you were my niece--then. I said that--I said that, although of course I had no shadow of authority over you, I did care for your happiness. I cared for that a great deal. If you loved him I should certainly--” “I see,” she broke in, scornfully. “I see. He told you I was here. That is why you came. Did he send you to me to say--what you are trying to say?” “Oh, no, no! You are mistaken. You wrong him, Frances. He did not do that. He's not that sort. He's a good fellow, an honorable man. And he does care for you. I know it. He cares greatly. He would, I am sure, make you a good husband, and if you care for him, he would do his best to make you happy, I--” Again she interrupted. “One moment,” she said, “Let me understand. Are you urging me to marry Herbert Bayliss?” “No. I am not urging you, of course. But if you do care for him--” “I do not.” “Oh, you don't love him?” I wonder if there was relief in my tone. There should not have been, of course, but I fear there was. “No, I do not--love him. He is a gentleman and I like him well enough, but not in that way. Please don't say any more.” “Very well. I only meant--Tell me this, if you will: Is there someone you do care for?” She did not answer. I had offended her again. She had cause to be offended. What business was it of mine? “I beg your pardon,” I said, humbly. “I should not have asked that. I have no right to ask it. But if there is someone for whom you care in that way and he cares for you, it--” “Oh, don't, don't! He doesn't.” “Then there is someone?” She was silent. I tried to speak like a man, like the man I was pretending to be.