--started it boiling and racing and leaping in my veins as no woman
ever did before. You slender white witch! you fay of mist and moonlight,
you've woven a spell, and tangled my soul in it, and nothing in Life or in
Death will ever loose me again." His tone changed, became infinitely
caressing. "How sweet and dear you are to be so patient with me, while I'm
sending the Conventionalities to the rightabout and terrifying the
Proprieties. Forgive me, Miss Mildare."

The pleading in his face was exquisite. She felt as a bee might feel
drowning in honey, as she wreathed her white fingers together upon the
silver buckle of the brown leather belt she wore, and said confusedly:

"I ... I believe I ought to be very angry with you."

His whisper touched her ear like a kiss, and set her trembling.

"But you're not?"

"I----"

She caught her breath as he came nearer. There was a fragrance from him--a
perfume of youth and health and vitality--that was powerful, heady,
intoxicating as the first warm, flower-scented wind of Spring, blowing
down a mountain-kloof from the high ranges. Her white-rose cheeks took
sudden warmth of hue, and her pale nostrils quivered. A faint, mysterious
smile dawned upon her lips. Something of the old terror was upon her
still, and yet--it was delicious to be afraid of him!

"Say that you aren't angry with me for being so thunderingly presumptuous.
Please be kind to me and say it."

Her lips began to utter disjointed phrases. "What can it matter really?...
Oh, very well, then ... if my saying so is of such ... importance...."

"More important than anything in the world!" he declared.

"Very well, then, I am not angry--not furiously so, at least." The bud of
a smile repressed pouted her lips.

"And," he begged, "you'll let what I've said to you be our secret?
Promise."

"Very well."

"You sweetest, kindest, loveliest----"

"Please don't," she entreated.

"And I may know your Christian name?" he persisted, "I've thought of
everything in the world, and nothing's good enough to fit you."

"Oh, how silly!" Her eyes gleamed with laughter. "It is Lynette."

He caught at it with rapture. "Perfect! The last touch.... The scent of
the rose, or say the dewdrop on it. By George, I'm in earnest!"

He had spoken incautiously loud. A grating voice addressing him pulled his
head round.

"Lord Beauvayse ..."

"Did you speak to me, Doctor? As I was saying, Miss Mildare," he went on,
continuing the b