"I suppose you're quite sure about it," he ventured cautiously. "Oh, yes." He looked utterly unconvinced. "Why, I've hardly ever even dreamed about you," she remonstrated. "And I know all your faults." "Oh, you do, do you? Out with the list." "It would take too long." Alwynne dimpled. "Love must be blind--is that the idea? Couldn't that be got over? One uses blinkers, you know, in double harness. I never dream, Alwynne, normally. Must I eat lobster salad every night?" "There--you see!" Alwynne waved her hand complacently. "You're just as bad. You couldn't talk like that if----" "If what?" "Nothing!" "If what?" Alwynne looked at him. "If what, Alwynne?" Roger's tone was a little stern. She had taken a rose from the bowl at her elbow, and was slowly pulling off the petals. Her eyes were on her work. He waited. Her hands cupped the little pile of rose-leaves. She buried her face in them--watching him an instant, through her fingers. "They are very sweet, Roger--are they from home--from Dene, I mean? Smell!" She held out her hands to him. He caught them in his own. The red petals fluttered noiselessly to the ground. "If what, Alwynne?" he insisted. "Oh, Roger! Do you really care--so much?" "Yes, dear," he said soberly, "so much." Alwynne looked up at him anxiously. She was very conscious of the big warm hands that held hers so firmly. She wished that he would not look so intent and grave; he made her feel frightened and unhappy. No--not frightened, exactly. There was something strong and serene about him, that upheld her, even when she opposed him; but certainly, unhappy. She realised suddenly how immensely she liked him--how entirely his nature satisfied hers. "Oh, Roger!" she said wistfully. "I do like you. It isn't that I wouldn't like to marry you." His face lit up. "Would--liking awfully--do, Roger? Would it be fair? Must one be in love like a book?" His face relaxed. "I shall be content," he said. Then, impetuously, "Alwynne, I'll make you so happy. You shall do--nearly everything--you want to. Alwynne, if you only knew----" She stopped him hurriedly, pulling away her hands. "Don't, Roger! Don't! I didn't mean that. I only meant I'd like to. But I can't, of course. Of course, I can't. There's Clare." "Clare!" His tone abolished Clare. Alwynne flushed. "Why do you sneer at Clare? You always sneer. I won't have it." Her tone, in spite of her sudden anger, was unconsciously and comically proprietary. He repressed a smile as he answered her. "All right, dear. But I wasn't sneering--not at Clare." "At me, then?" "Not sneering--chuckling. My dear, what has Clare--oh, yes, she's your dearest friend--but what has any friend, any woman, got to say to us two? We're going to get married." "We're not. It's no good, Roger." Alwynne spoke slowly and emphatically, as one explaining things to a foreigner. "Why won't you understand? Clare wants me. We've been friends for years."