“Stop,” said Irene. “You’ve taken the wrong turn again.” But Hovenden did not stop. Instead, he pressed down the accelerator. If the car got round the corners it was more by a miracle than in obedience to the laws of Newton or of nature. “Stop!” cried Irene again. But the car went on. From the hill-top they looked down once more upon the lake. “Will you marry me?” Lord Hovenden asked again. His eyes were fixed on the road in front of him. Rapturously, triumphantly he smiled. He had never felt happier, never more daring, more overflowing with strength and power. “Will you marry me?” “No,” said Irene. She felt annoyed; how stupidly he was behaving! They were silent for several minutes. At Castiglione del Lago he asked again. Irene repeated her answer. “You’re not going to do this clown’s trick again, are you?” she asked as they approached the bifurcation of the roads. “It depends if you’re going to marry me,” he answered. This time he laughed aloud; so infectiously that Irene, whose irritation was something laid on superficially over her happiness, could not help laughing too. “_Are_ you going to?” he asked. “No.” Lord Hovenden turned to the left. “It’ll be late before we get to Perugia,” he said. “Oo-ooh!” cried Miss Elver, as they topped the long hill. “How lovely!” She clapped her hands. Then, leaning forward, she touched Irene’s shoulder. “What a lot of lakes there are here!” she said. On the north shore Lord Hovenden asked again. Cortona and Montelpuciano presided at the asking. “I don’t see why I should be bullied,” said Irene. Lord Hovenden found the answer more promising than those which had gone before. “But you’re not being bullied.” “I am,” she insisted. “You’re trying to force me to answer all at once, without thinking.” “Now really,” said Hovenden, “I call vat a bit fick. Forcing you to answer all at once! But vat’s exactly what I’m not doing. I’m giving you time. We’ll go round ve lake all night, if you like.” A quarter of a mile from the forking of the road, he put the question yet once more. “You’re a beast,” said Irene. “Vat’s not an answer.” “I don’t want to answer.” “You needn’t answer definitely if you don’t want to,” he conceded. “I only want you to say vat you’ll fink of it. Just say perhaps.” “I don’t want to,” Irene insisted. They were very close, now, to the dividing of ways. “Just perhaps. Just say you’ll fink of it.” “Well, I’ll think,” said Irene. “But mind, it doesn’t commit....” She did not finish her sentence; for the car, which had been heading towards the left, swerved suddenly to the right with such violence that Irene had to clutch at the arm of her seat to prevent herself from being thrown sideways bodily out of the machine. “Goodness!”