uld not love me, that I was
taken for ever in the nets of your black hair and by the incantation of
your voice-'

'Oh, stop!' she cried, suddenly throwing back her head, her face flaming
and her hands clutching the cushions beside her. She spoke fast and
disjointedly, her breath coming quick. 'You shall not talk me into
forgetting common sense. What does all this mean? Oh, I do not recognize
you at all--you seem another man. We are not children; have you
forgotten that? You speak like a boy in love for the first time. It is
foolish, unreal--I know that if you do not. I will not hear it. What has
happened to you?' She was half sobbing. 'How can these sentimentalities
come from a man like you? Where is your self-restraint?'

'Gone!' exclaimed Trent, with an abrupt laugh. 'It has got right away. I
am going after it in a minute.' He looked gravely down into her eyes.
'I don't care so much now. I never could declare myself to you under
the cloud of your great fortune. It was too heavy. There's nothing
creditable in that feeling, as I look at it; as a matter of simple
fact it was a form of cowardice--fear of what you would think, and very
likely say--fear of the world's comment too, I suppose. But the cloud
being rolled away, I have spoken, and I don't care so much. I can face
things with a quiet mind now that I have told you the truth in its own
terms. You may call it sentimentality or any other nickname you like. It
is quite true that it was not intended for a scientific statement. Since
it annoys you, let it be extinguished. But please believe that it was
serious to me if it was comedy to you. I have said that I love you, and
honour you, and would hold you dearest of all the world. Now give me
leave to go.'

But she held out her hands to him.

CHAPTER XIV: Writing a Letter

'If you insist,' Trent said, 'I suppose you will have your way. But I
had much rather write it when I am not with you. However, if I must,
bring me a tablet whiter than a star, or hand of hymning angel; I mean
a sheet of note-paper not stamped with your address. Don't underestimate
the sacrifice I am making. I never felt less like correspondence in my
life.'

She rewarded him.

'What shall I say?' he enquired, his pen hovering over the paper. 'Shall
I compare him to a summer's day? What shall I say?'

'Say what you want to say,' she suggested helpfully.

He shook his head. 'What I want to say--what I have been wanting for the
past twen