"Why do you look so surprised?" he says. "Why will you not answer me? Surely for weeks you must have seen I would some time ask you this question. Then why not to-day? If I waited for years I could not love you more utterly, more madly, if you like, than now. And you, Phyllis--say you will be my wife." "I cannot indeed," I reply, earnestly; "it is out of the question. I never knew you--you cared for me in this way--I always thought--that is, we all thought--you---" "Yes?" "We were all quite sure--I mean none of us imagined you were in love with _me_." "With whom, then?--with Dora?" "Well"--nervously--"I am sure mamma and papa thought so, and so did I." "What an absurd mistake! Ten thousand Doras would not make one Phyllis. Do you know, ever since that first day I saw you in the wood I loved you? Do you remember it?" "Yes," I say, blushing furiously. "I was hanging from the nut tree and nearly went mad with shame and rage when I found I could not escape. It puzzles me to think what you could have seen to admire about me _that_ day, unless my boots." I laugh rather hysterically. "Nevertheless I _did_ love you then, and have gone on nursing the feeling ever since, until I can keep it to myself no longer. But you are silent, Phyllis. Why do you not speak? I _will_ not remember what you said just now; I _will_ not take a refusal from you. Darling, darling, surely you love me, if only a little?" "No, I do not love you," I answer, with downcast lids and flaming cheeks. Silence falls upon my cruel words. His hand-clasp loosens, but still he does not let me altogether go; and, glancing up timidly, I see a face like and yet unlike the face I know--a face that is still and white, with lips that tremble slightly beneath the heavy fair mustache. A world of disappointed anguish darkens his blue eyes. Seeing all this, and knowing myself its cause, my heart is touched and a keen pang darts through my breast. I press his hands with reassuring force as I go on hastily:--- "But I _like_ you, you will understand. I may not _love_ you, but I _like_ you very much indeed--better than any other man I ever met, except Roland and Billy, and _he_ is only a boy." This is not a very clear or logical speech, but it does just as well: it brings the blood back to his face, and a smile to his lips, the light and fire to his eyes. "Are you sure of that?" he asks, eagerly. "Are you certain, Phyllis?" "Quite sure. But then I have never seen any men except Mr. Mangan, you know, and the curate, and Bobby De Vere, and--and one or two others." "And these one or two others,"--jealously--"have I nothing to fear from them? Have you given _them_ none of your thoughts?" "Not one," return I, smiling up at him. The smile does more than I intend.