“Why not,” said I. “Surely Sir John can get you up there any day?” “Not now. The fighting makes it difficult. But it isn’t that. I am leaving.” “Leaving?” My heart gave a leap. “Why? Where?” “Leaving Lady Meryon.” “Why--for Heaven’s sake?” “I had rather not tell you.” “But I must know.” “You cannot.” “I shall ask Lady Meryon.” “I forbid you.” And then the unexpected happened, and an unbearable impulse swept me into folly--or was it wisdom? “Listen to me. I would not have said it yet, but this settles it. I want you to marry me. I want it atrociously!” It was a strange word. What I felt for her at that moment was difficult to describe. I endured it like a pain that could only be assuaged by her presence, but I endured it angrily. We were walking on the sunset road--very deserted and quiet at the time. The place was propitious if nothing else was. She looked at me in transparent astonishment; “Mr. Clifden, are you dreaming? You can’t mean what you say.” “Why can’t I? I do. I want you. You have the key of all I care for. I think of the world without you and find it tasteless.” “Surely you have all the world can give? What do you want more?” “The power to enjoy it--to understand it. You have got that--I haven’t. I want you always with me to interpret, like a guide to a blind fellow. I am no better.” “Say like a dog, at once!” she interrupted. “At least you are frank enough to put it on that ground. You have not said you love me. You could not say it.” “I don’t know whether I do or not. I know nothing about love. I want you. Indescribably. Perhaps that is love--is it? I never wanted any one before. I have tried to get away and I can’t.” I was brutally frank, you see. She compelled my very thoughts. “Why have you tried?” “Because every man likes freedom. But I like you better.” “I can tell you the reason,” she said in her gentle unwavering voice. “I am Lady Meryon’s governess, and an undesirable. You have felt that?” “Don’t make me out such a snob. No--yes. You force me into honesty. I did feel it at first like the miserable fool I am, but I could kick myself when I think of that now. It is utterly forgotten. Take me and make me what you will, and forgive me. Only tell me your secret of joy. How is it you understand everything alive or dead? I want to live--to see, to know.” It was a rhapsody like a boy’s. Yet at the moment I was not even ashamed of it, so sharp was my need. “I think,” she said, slowly, looking straight before her, “that I had better be quite frank. I don’t love you. I don’t know what love means in the Western sense. It has a very different meaning for me. Your voice comes to me from an immense distance when you speak in that way. You want me--but never with a thought of what I might want. Is that love? I like you very deeply as a friend, but we are of different races. There is a gulf.” “A gulf? You are English.”