"Marjorie," came his voice at last, strangely softened. "There is something I want to say to you." She made no reply. "Ever since we met last summer----" A clear cold little resolution not to stand this, had established itself in Marjorie's mind. If she must decide, she _would_ decide. He had brought it upon himself. "Marjorie," said Mr. Magnet, "I love you." She lifted a clear unhesitating eye to his face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Magnet," she said. "I wanted to ask you to marry me," he said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Magnet," she repeated. They looked at one another. She felt a sort of scared exultation at having done it; her mother might say what she liked. "I love you very much," he said, at a loss. "I'm sorry," she repeated obstinately. "I thought you cared for me a little." She left that unanswered. She had a curious feeling that there was no getting away from this splashing, babbling pool, that she was fixed there until Mr. Magnet chose to release her, and that he didn't mean to release her yet. In which case she would go on refusing. "I'm disappointed," he said. Marjorie could only think that she was sorry again, but as she had already said that three times, she remained awkwardly silent. "Is it because----" he began and stopped. "It isn't because of anything. Please let's go back to the others, Mr. Magnet. I'm sorry if I'm disappointing." And by a great effort she turned about. Mr. Magnet remained regarding her--I can only compare it to the searching preliminary gaze of an artistic photographer. For a crucial minute in his life Marjorie hated him. "I don't understand," he said at last. Then with a sort of naturalness that ought to have touched her he said: "Is it possible, Marjorie--that I might hope?--that I have been inopportune?" She answered at once with absolute conviction. "I don't think so, Mr. Magnet." "I'm sorry," he said, "to have bothered you." "_I'm_ sorry," said Marjorie. A long silence followed. "I'm sorry too," he said. They said no more, but began to retrace their steps. It was over. Abruptly, Mr. Magnet's bearing had become despondent--conspicuously despondent. "I had hoped," he said, and sighed. With a thrill of horror Marjorie perceived he meant to _look_ rejected, let every one see he had been rejected--after encouragement. What would they think? How would they look? What conceivably might they not say? Something of the importance of the thing she had done, became manifest to her. She felt first intimations of regret. They would all be watching, Mother, Daffy, Lady Petchworth. She would reappear with this victim visibly suffering beside her. What could she say to straighten his back and lift his chin? She could think of nothing. Ahead at the end of the shaded path she could see the copious white form, the agitated fair wig and red sunshade of Lady Petchworth---- § 4