"I'm not going to give you up," he said. "I love you. Whatever is lacking in you makes no difference to me. My being poor and your being poor makes no difference either. I simply don't care--I don't even care what you think about it. Because I know that we will be worth it to each other--whether you think so or not. And you evidently don't, but I can't help that. If I'm any good I'll make you think as I do----" He swung on his heel and came straight up to her, took her in his arms and kissed her, then, releasing her, turned toward the window, his brows slightly knitted. Through the panes poured the sunset flood, bathing him from head to foot in ruddy light. He stared into the red West and the muscles tightened under his cheeks. "_Can't_ you care?" he said, half to himself. She stood dumb, still cold and rigid with repulsion from the swift and almost brutal contact. That time nothing in her had responded. Vaguely she felt that what had been there was now dead--that she never could respond again; that, from the lesser emotions, she was clean and free forever. "_Can't_ you care for a man who loves you, Strelsa?" he said again, turning toward her. "Is _that_ your idea of love?" He shook his head, hopelessly: "Oh, it's everything else, too--everything on earth--and afterward--everything--mind, soul and body--birth, life, death--sky and land and sea--everything that is or was or will be----" His hands clenched, relaxed; he made a gesture, half checked--looked up at her, looked long and steadily into her expressionless eyes. "You care for money, position, ease, security, tranquillity--more than for love; do you?" "Yes." "Is that true?" "Yes. Because, unless you mean friendship, I care nothing for love." "That is your answer." "It is." "Then there _is_ something lacking in you." "Perhaps. I have never loved in the manner you mean. I do not wish to. Perhaps I am incapable of it.... I hope I am; I believe--I believe--" But she fell silent, standing with eyes lowered and the warm blood once more stinging her cheeks. Presently she looked up, calm, level-eyed: "I think you had better ask my forgiveness before you go." He shrugged: "Yes, I'll ask it if you like." To keep her composure became difficult: "It is your affair, Mr. Quarren--if you still care to preserve our friendship." "Would a kiss shatter it?" She smiled: "A look, a word, the quiver of an eyelash is enough." "It doesn't seem to be very solidly founded, does it?" "Friendship is the frailest thing in the world--and the mightiest.... I am waiting for your decision." He walked up to her again, and she steeled herself, not knowing what to expect. "Will you marry me, Strelsa?" "No." "Why?" "Because I have told Mr. Sprowl that I will marry him." "Also because you don't love me; is that so?" She said tranquilly: "I can't afford to marry you. I wouldn't love you anyway." "Couldn't?" "Wouldn't," she said calmly; but her face was crimson.