simply brutal!" exclaimed the young girl, angry with him
unreasonably because the argument was good.

"It's true, at all events. I didn't love Mrs. Crosby, and I told her so.
You may think me a brute if you like, but you heard me say it, if you
heard anything, so I suppose I may quote myself. I do love you, and I
have told you so--the fact that I can't say it in choice language
doesn't make it a lie. I'm not a man in a book, and I'm in earnest."

"Please stop," said Clare, as she heard the hoarse strength coming back
in his voice.

"Yes--I know. I've said it before, and you don't care to hear it again.
You can't kill it by making me hold my tongue, you know. It only makes
it worse. You'll see that I'm in earnest in time--then you'll change
your mind. But I can't change mine. I can't live without you, whatever
you may think of me now."

It was a strange wooing, very unlike anything she had ever dreamt of, if
she had allowed herself to dream of such things. She asked herself
whether this could be the same man who had calmly and cynically told
Lady Fan that he did not love her and could not think of marrying her.
He had been cool and quiet enough then. That gave strength to the
argument he used now. She had seen him with another woman, and now she
saw him with herself and heard him. She was surprised and almost taken
from her feet by his rough vehemence. He surely did not speak as a man
choosing his words, certainly not as one trying to produce an effect.
But then, on that evening at the Acropolis--the thought of that scene
pursued her--he had doubtless spoken just as roughly and vehemently to
Lady Fan, and had seemed just as much in earnest. And suddenly Lady Fan
was hateful to her, and she almost ceased to pity her at all. But for
Lady Fan--well, it might have been different. She should not have blamed
herself for liking him, for loving him perhaps, and his words would have
had another ring.

He still stood beside her, watching her, and she was afraid to turn to
him lest he should see something in her face which she meant to hide.
But she could speak quietly enough, resting her hands on the wall and
looking out to sea. It would be best to be a little formal, she thought.
The sound of his own name spoken distinctly and coldly would perhaps
warn him not to go too far.

"Mr. Johnstone," she said, steadying her voice, "this can't go on. I
never meant to tell you what I knew, but you have forced me to it. I
don't love