“No,” said Douglas, forgetting his ceremonious manner and speaking angrily and naturally; “but you talk as though I had not been making love to _you_.” “If you have, I never knew it. I never dreamt it.” “Then, since you are not the stupidest lady of my acquaintance, you must be the most innocent.” “Tell me of one single occasion on which anything has passed between us that justifies your speaking to me as you are doing now.” “Innumerable occasions. But since I cannot compel you to acknowledge them, it would be useless to cite them.” “All I can say is that we have utterly misunderstood one another,” she said, after a pause. He said nothing, but took up his hat, and looked down at it with angry determination. Marian, too uneasy to endure silence, added: “But I shall know better in future.” “True,” said Douglas, hastily putting down his hat and advancing a step. “You cannot plead misunderstanding now. Can you give me the assurance I seek?” “What assurance?” Douglas shook his shoulders impatiently. “You expect me to know everything by intuition,” she said. “Well, my declaration shall be definite enough, even for you. Do you love me?” “No, I dont think I do. In fact, I am quite sure I do not—in the way you mean. I wish you would not talk like this, Sholto. We have all got on so pleasantly together: you, and I, and Nelly, and Marmaduke, and my father. And now you begin making love, and stuff of that kind. Pray let us agree to forget all about it, and remain friends as before.” “You need not be anxious about our future relations: I shall not embarrass you with my society again. I hoped to find you a woman capable of appreciating a man’s passion, even if you should be unable to respond to it. But I perceive that you are only a girl, not yet aware of the deeper life that underlies the ice of conventionality.” “That is a very good metaphor for your own case,” said Marian, interrupting him. “Your ordinary manner is all ice, hard and chilling. One may suspect that there are depths beneath, but that is only an additional inducement to keep on the surface.” “Then even your amiability is a delusion! Or is it that you are amiable to the rest of the world, and reserve taunts of coldness and treachery for me?” “No, no,” she said, angelic again. “You have taken me up wrongly. I did not mean to taunt you.” “You conceal your meaning as skilfully as—according to you—I have concealed mine. Good-morning.” “Are you going already?” “Do you care one bit for me, Marian?” “I do indeed. Believe me, you are one of my special friends.” “I do not want to be _one_ of your friends. Will you be my wife?” “Sholto!” “Will you be my wife?” “No. I——” “Pardon me. That is quite sufficient. Good-morning.” The moment he interrupted her, a change in her face shewed she had a temper. She did not move a muscle until she heard the house door close behind him. Then she ran upstairs to the drawing-room, where Miss McQuinch was still practising.