Deleah, speechless for the moment, looked at the man with eyes grown wide with dismay. His was no tragic figure. He wore the light-coloured, large checked suit affected at that period by young men escaping temporarily from the black-frocked livery of shop or office, his hair was brushed smoothly back and shone with brilliantine, his moustache was glossy with the same admired preparation. His face was extra pale, but Deleah knew it had the trick of paling suddenly and for small cause. She had seen it blanch at a chance encounter with her in the street, or accidental touching of her hand by his. She avoided meeting his eyes--those eyes said to hold something in their expression which redeemed his face from the commonplace--and the wild ardour of their gaze was lost upon her. "Everything is yours, Deleah; when will you come and take it over?" "Mr. Gibbon, I told you before. I have not changed." "Nor I." His lips were lead-coloured and trembling; he was indeed trembling all over. He crossed his arms upon his chest to keep them still. "You are going to be my wife or no one's, Deleah," he said. She got up nervously from her chair; she tried to speak lightly. "I am going to be no one's, Mr. Gibbon," she said. "As I walked along to-night I have been making up my mind what to do. I shall take a small house for us all, and try to keep a little school. You shall see how well I keep my pupils in order. And, now and then, you shall bring me a nosegay of flowers from your garden--" "That won't suit me," he said. "I give you no more flowers unless you take them all. Will you take them? Answer." "Oh, Mr. Gibbon!" "'Oh, Mr. Gibbon!'" and he mimicked her. "Is that the way to speak to me? After all the years of my worship, am I still 'Mr. Gibbon' to you?" "I suppose so," was all poor Deleah could say. He was standing with his back to the door. He turned swiftly and locked it, then holding the key in his shaking hand, crossed his arms again: "Now!" he said, facing her; "we come to realities now. No more 'Oh, Mr. Gibbon!' no more talk about flowers. Listen. I, Charles Gibbon, love you with a passionate and desperate love that is not going to be played with. Do you, Deleah Day, love me? Say it out, once for all; Gospel truth; as God is in heaven to hear it." "I don't love you." "Do you hate me?" Deleah was frightened, but she was angry too: "Just for the minute I think I do." "All the same, hating me, will you marry me, and come to live in the house I have made for you?" "No," said Deleah, pale and suddenly breathless. "I won't!" He listened, panting as if from long running; his chest laboured beneath the grip of his folded arms as if it must burst. For a long minute he glared at her, speechless; and Deleah, glaring back at him wondered was this man with the working, ashen face really their decorous boarder, who had been so assiduous in passing the mustard and pouring out the water? What had come to him? Had she done this? Did he mean to kill her?