"If I go with you," she said quietly, "I shall go on my own responsibility." "Janet, it would be too wonderful. Don’t let me think of it, or my good resolutions will stand no firmer than a flag in a strong wind. But you are an angel to offer to come. You do love me then, very, very much?" "What a question, Claude!" "Well, you keep a pretty tight rein on your feelings, darling," he said, with the least trace of reproach. "Tender and true you are, I know," he added. "But you don’t say any of the things that girls say when their hearts are in the grip of a wild, extravagant passion. Do you know that you have never even asked me once whether I really and truly and madly love you?" "Whether _you_ love _me_?" "Yes, that is the question girls ask their lovers over and over again." "Well, Claude, the important thing to me is that _I_ love _you_." "Do you mean to say, Janet, that you don’t care whether I love you or not?" "I don’t mean that. But what I care about most is that you are the sort of man whom _I_ can love. That is the thing that makes me happy. It’s delightful, of course, to know that you love me in return. Still, if you didn’t love me, I don’t think I should be in hopeless misery. If you turned out to be different from what I dreamed you were, so different that I could no longer love you, then I should be heart-broken." To Claude, this seemed a bitter-sweet reply. More sweet than bitter, however, and so he did not contest it. What a puzzling girl she was, he thought. So sensible and yet so imprudent. And totally devoid of the instinct that induces most women to exploit the amorous moment. Claude could not get over it. Any other girl would have made the most of his present mood, the mood in which he was ready to think the world well lost for love. When the blood is hot, the tongue is prodigal of vows. Claude, at all events, was willing to promise anything, especially as he was still in pursuit, and as his promises were not to mature until he was in possession. Yet Janet asked absolutely nothing! This surrender, as open-handed as it was confiding, moved him to compunction. He sat up and put his arms around her. Her head buried in his shoulder had the effect of seeking refuge there. And she looked so trusting, so helpless, so innocent, that a great love for her welled up in his heart. Ought he not to do the noble, the chivalrous thing? "Look here, Janet," he said, with the air of Sir Philip Sidney offering his last drink of water to another wounded soldier on the battle field, "why couldn’t we be married? My father would get over it in time." "Yes, your father might. But _we_ might not." "No, no, dearest. You mustn’t say that. My love is not a thing of whims and fancies. I shall love you till life itself has passed away." "Then what difference does it make whether we get married or not," she said.