es, Quinny!"

"But not now, dear. To-night! Or to-morrow, perhaps!"

She pinched his cheek in a pretence at anger. "You were always very
vague, Quinny!" she said.

"I know," he answered. "It's a kind of ... cowardice, that, isn't it?
I'm vague because I dislike ... am afraid ... to be definite. I'm a
frightful coward, Mary!..."

He might approach the subject by these devious ways, he told himself. He
had not meant to talk to her about his failure in courage until she and
he could be alone in the evening ... this walk together was to be the
final lovers' stroll, unmarred by any bitterness ... but even in his
effort to postpone the time of telling, he had prepared to tell her ...
and perhaps it was better that she should know now. Here, indeed, in
this snowy silence, they were free from any intrusion. It might not be
possible to make his confession to her without interruption from Rachel
or Mrs. Graham ... and some feeling for the fitness of things made him
decide that this outdoor scene was a better place for his purpose than
the lamplit interior of the Manor. Through the blown branches of the
hedges he could see the thick sheets of snow spread over the fields. The
boughs of the fruit-trees in the orchard showed very black beneath their
white covering, as if they felt cold, and he looted away quickly to the
haystacks in the farmyard that seemed so warm in spite of the snow. The
dusk was drawing in, and the grey sky was darkening for the night....

"Mary," he said, so abruptly that she looked up at him enquiringly.
"Let's walk back a little way...."

"But, Quinny, it's getting late. They'll wonder what's happened to us!"

"I want to tell you ... now, Mary!"

He compelled her to turn, as he spoke, and they walked slowly back
towards the fir tree.

"What is it, Quinny?" she asked tenderly, as if she would comfort him.

"I ... I want to tell you something!"

"Yes?"

"I hardly know how to begin. It's very difficult, dear...."

"What is it, Quinny?" she demanded, more anxiously.

But still he would not tell her ... he must have her love a little
longer.

"Mary, I love you so much, dear ... oh, I feel like a fool when I try to
tell you how much I love you!"

"I know you love me, Quinny!"

"And now ... this very minute ... I love you far more than I've ever
loved you. Every bit of me is in love with you, Mary. You're very sweet
and dear!..."

She had a sense of impending disaster, but she did not express i