He felt dashed and piqued, both at the same moment. "I wonder if you have any idea of how cruel it is of you to say that?" he asked, half pleading, half annoyed. "Oh, I don't want to be cruel," she hastily answered. "I want to be very kind to you, Mr. Vanston." "Say Denzil--give me my name, Rona." "Oh!" said Rona, quite as if the suggestion shocked her. He leaned forward, staring at her, taking in the beauties of her with thirsty eyes--the quality of her skin, the modeling of the corners of her lips, the bend of her lashes, the heaving of her throat under her embroidered muslin bodice. "Why not?" he asked, in a low, hoarse voice. The voice warned Rona, for it was unnatural. She stood up. "It is chilly in the wind," she said, standing there, her face and, hair gilded by a long sun ray which struck upon her through the trees. He sprang to his feet, and his eyes glittered. "Oh!" he said, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" He caught both her hands in his hot grasp. "You must tell me," he panted, "do you hear? You must tell me what you feel? Did you mean what you said, that you don't care for me? Oh, you couldn't mean that--Rona!" He was close to her--so close that he could feel the contact of her slim form. Some instinct warned her that to move suddenly would provoke further demonstration. She grew white, and took his hand in her own. "Have I not asked you," she said, in a very still voice, "not to talk of this--yet?" It was the woman's device to gain time. But it did not seem to have succeeded. "Not yet?" he cried, on a high note. "Is that what you mean, really? That we ought not to speak freely yet? I can wait--or I thought I could, half an hour ago! But give me a word, just a word, Rona." He followed her up, his arm ready to go round her waist. She but just eluded him. "The word is--wait," she said: and in her fear she began to lose the control which had subdued him. "You must wait, if I say wait," she cried imperiously. And her next words sounded curiously irrelevant. "After all, I am only nineteen," she urged, indignantly. He felt like a man pushing against a closed door--felt a deep desire to batter it down with force. Yet he could not risk her displeasure. "Oh, Rona," he said, "it is too bad of you to torture me." She retorted quickly, "It is you who are torturing me"--and broke off upon the word, for there was the sound of a voice raised, calling Mr. Vanston. Impatiently Denzil went to the flight of steps which led down into the little garden where they sat. "Who is there? What do you want?" he cried testily. "Oh, there you are, sir," cried Chant, the butler. "I knew you had come in, but couldn't find you. A cablegram, sir. Is there any answer?" Rona's heart seemed to stop. She stood where she was, still as a statue, while Denzil opened the envelope. He seemed to grope, to fumble, to take incredibly long over the simple process.