e same house with you," he said.

She made no answer except to smile, and he spoke no more of Quisante. To
him it seemed that his enemy passed then and there from thought, as his
name disappeared from the conversation. But his own words had raised
difficulties and turned the smooth path rough. They had renewed something
of the rebellious fit and given fresh life to the disorderly fancies.
They had roused her ready apprehensive pride, her swift resentment at the
idea of having her friends or her associates chosen for her. She would
have said most sincerely then that Marchmont was far more to her in her
heart than Quisante was or could be, but neither from Marchmont nor from
any man would she take orders to drop Quisante. While he opened his tale
of love, her fingers played with the invitation to Ashwood and her eyes
rested on Lady Richard's despairing declaration of the inevitable--"He's
coming!"

He almost won her; his soft "Can you love me?" went very near her heart.
She wanted to answer "Yes" and felt sure that it would be in reality a
true response, and that happiness would wait on and reward the decisive
word. But she was held back by an unconquerable indecision, a refusal (as
it seemed) of her whole being to be committed to the pledge. She had not
resented the confidence of his wooing--she had given him some cause to be
confident; she pitied and even hated the distress into which her doubt
threw him. Yet she could do no more than say "I don't know yet." He moved
away from her.

"You'd better go away and leave me altogether," she said.

"I won't do that. I can't."

"I can say nothing else--I don't know yet. You must give me time."

"Ah, you mean 'yes'!" His voice grew assured again and joyful.

She weighed the words in which she answered him.

"No. If I meant yes, I'd say it. I wouldn't shilly-shally. I simply don't
know yet."

He left her and paced the length of the room, frowning. Her hesitation
puzzled him; he failed to trace its origin and fretted against a barrier
that he felt but could not see. She sat silent, looking at him in a
distressed fashion and restlessly fingering Lady Richard's invitation.
She was no less troubled than he and almost as puzzled; for the feeling
that held her back even while she wanted to go forward was vague,
formless, empty of anything definite enough to lay hold of and bring
forward as the plea that justified her wavering.

"I ought to say no, since I can't say yes. This