“Ah, but I want to; and after all it needn’t hurt you. It’s so good to have you all alone like this and tell you about it. Ever since the night on the mountain, I’ve been talking and smiling in my usual inane fashion, and all the time there was a seething volcano underneath. It hasn’t been a pleasant two days; I wouldn’t care about having them over again. Hour after hour I have longed to start off to the Parsonage; sometimes I have got as far as the lodge. But I felt I ought to give you time to recover thoroughly, and so I forced myself to turn back. When I awoke this morning I knew I should come to day. I had reached the utmost limit of my patience. Did you expect me? Did you, perhaps, hope I should come to-day!” She had put her hands up to her face, and now he tried to draw one of them away. “Why won’t you look at me, Paddy! Why won’t you let me see your face! Come, be your own bright self again. Chuck all this cursed nonsense about being impossible. Don’t you know that my arms are aching for you? Do you hear, Paddy!—_aching_ for you—and you sit there so silent and distant. Are you thinking of London and that beastly dispensary! Why, it’s all done with, little woman; your home is going to be here in the future. Mourne Lodge is yours, and the horses are yours, and the boats, and the shooting, and everything. Ah! I’ll make you so happy—” She got up swiftly, suddenly, and thrust her hands out before her, as if warding off something. Her face was deathly white, and she looked only at the loch. “Oh, stop! stop! Don’t you realise it is _impossible_?” He changed colour visibly. “Perhaps I have been too sudden after all,” he said. “Perhaps by and by—” “No, _newer_,” and she mustered all her powers for the final word. He gave a queer little laugh. “‘Never’ is a long time,” with a touch of the old cynical manner. “I mean it,” resolutely. “You mean you prefer London—and the dispensary—and the loneliness to Mourne Lodge, and the loch, and the mountains?” She was silent. “Is that what you mean, Paddy!” She tried to evade the question, but he would not let her. He stood up close to her, his face a little stern, his lips rigid. “Look at me, Paddy,” in a tone of command. She hesitated a second, then once again summoned all her courage, and looked steadily into his eyes. “Now, why won’t you stay here and be happy, instead of going back?” “Because I hate you,” and though her voice was low it contained no shadow of faltering. Lawrence turned away sharply, and stood looking at the loch. His face grew, if anything, a little sterner, but showed no symptoms of defeat. Paddy could only wait, feeling vaguely wretched. When he spoke his voice had changed somewhat. “You are candid as ever, but I am not convinced. It is because I believe I can turn your hate into love, I will not give in. Tell me one thing—is it the old bone of contention that stands between us!” Paddy was silent. “Tell me,” he reiterated.