was
going to ask her to marry him, then and there, in the blazing noon,
under the vines, but her modesty scouted the thought as savouring of
vanity. At all events she would prevent him from doing it if she could.

"Lady Johnstone seems to like this place," she said, with a sudden
effort at conversation. "She says that she means to make all sorts of
expeditions."

"Of course she will," answered Brook, in a half-impatient tone. "But,
please--I don't want to talk about my mother or the landscape. I really
did want to speak to you, because I can't stand this sort of thing any
longer, you know."

"What sort of thing?" asked Clare innocently, raising her eyes to his,
as they reached the end of the walk.

It was very hot and still. Not a breath stirred the young vine-leaves
overhead, and the scent of the last orange-blossoms hung in the
motionless air. The heat rose quivering from the sea to southward, and
the water lay flat as a mirror under the glory of the first summer's
day.

They stood still. Clare felt nervous, and tried to think of something to
say which might keep him from speaking, and destroy the effect of her
last question. But it was too late now. He was pale, for him, and his
eyes were very bright.

"I can't live without you--it comes to that. Can't you see?"

The short plain words shook oddly as they fell from his lips. The two
stood quite still, each looking into the other's face. Brook grew paler
still, but the colour rose in Clare's cheeks. She tried to meet his eyes
steadily, without feeling that he could control her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I'm very sorry."

"You sha'n't say that," he answered, cutting her words with his, and
sharply. "I'm tired of hearing it. I'm glad I love you, whatever you do
to me; and you must get to like me. You must. I tell you I can't live
without you."

"But if I can't--" Clare tried to say.

"You can--you must--you shall!" broke in Brook, hoarsely, his eyes
growing brighter and fiercer. "I didn't know what it was to love
anybody, and now that I know, I can't live without it, and I won't."

"But if--"

"There is no 'if,'" he cried, in his low strong voice, fixing her eyes
with his. "There's no question of my going mad, or dying, or anything
half so weak, because I won't take no. Oh, you may say it a hundred
times, but it won't help you. I tell you I love you. Do you understand
what that means? I'm in God's own earnest. I'll give you my life, but I
won't give you