"At last!" Wrayson said to himself, almost under his breath. "Shall we have a hansom, Louise, or do you care for a walk?"
"A walk, by all means," she answered hurriedly.
"It is not far, is it?"
"A mile--a little more perhaps," he answered.
"You are sure that you are not tired?"
"Tired only of sitting still," she answered. "We had a delightful crossing. This way, isn"t it?"
They left the Grosvenor Hotel, where Louise, with Madame de Melbain, had arrived about an hour ago, and turned towards Battersea. Louise began to talk, nervously, and with a very obvious desire to keep the conversation to indifferent subjects. Wrayson humoured her for some time. They spoke of the journey, suddenly determined upon by Madame de Melbain on receipt of his telegram, of the beauty of St. etarpe, of the wonderful reappearance of her brother.
"I can scarcely realize even now," she said, "that he is really alive. He is so altered. He seems a different person altogether."
"He has gone through a good deal," Wrayson remarked.
She sighed.
"Poor Duncan!" she murmured.
"He is very much to be pitied," Wrayson said seriously. "I, at any rate, can feel for him."
He turned towards her as he spoke, and his words were charged with meaning. She began quickly to speak of something else, but he interrupted her.
"Louise," he said, "is London so far from St. etarpe?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I think that you know very well," he answered. "I am sure that you do.
At St. etarpe you were content to accept what, believe me, is quite inevitable. Here--well, you have been doing all you can to avoid me, haven"t you?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "St. etarpe was an interlude. I told you so. You ought to have understood that."
They entered the Park, and Wrayson was silent for a few minutes. He led the way towards an empty seat.
"Let us sit down," he said, "and talk this out."
She hesitated.
"I think--" she began, but he interrupted her ruthlessly.
"If you prefer it, I will come to the Baroness with you," he declared.
She shrugged her shoulders and sat down.
"Very well," she said, "but I warn you that I am in a bad temper. I am hot and tired and dusty. We shall probably quarrel."
He looked at her critically. She was a little pale, perhaps, but there was nothing else to indicate that she had just arrived from a journey.
Her dress of dull black glace silk was cool and spotless, her hat and veil were immaculate. Always she had the air of having just come from the hands of an experienced maid. From the tips of her patent shoes to the fall of her veil, she was orderly and correct.
"It takes two," he said, "to quarrel. I shall not quarrel with you. All that I ask from you is a realization of the fact that we are engaged to be married."
She withdrew the hand which he had calmly possessed himself of.
"We are nothing of the sort," she declared.
He looked puzzled.
"Perhaps," he remarked, "I forgot to mention the matter last time I saw you, but I quite thought that you would take it for granted. In case I was forgetful, please let me impress the fact upon you now. We are going to be married, and very shortly. In fact, the sooner the better."
Of her own free will she laid her hand upon his. He fancied that behind her veil the tears had gathered in her eyes.
"Dear friend," she said softly, "I cannot marry you! I shall never marry any one. Will you please believe that? It will make it so much easier for me."
He was a little taken aback. She had changed her methods suddenly, and he had had no time to adapt himself to them.
"Don"t hate me, please," she murmured. "Indeed, it would make me very happy if we could be friends."
He laughed a little unnaturally, and turned in his seat until he was facing her.
"Would you mind lifting your veil for a moment, Louise?" he asked her.
She obeyed him with fingers which trembled a little. He saw then that the tears had indeed been in her eyes. Her lips quivered. She looked at him sadly, but very wistfully.
"Thank you!" he said. "Now would you mind asking yourself whether friendship between us is possible! Remember St. etarpe, and ask yourself that! Remember our seat amongst the roses--remember what you will of that long golden day."
She covered her face with her hands.
"Ah, no!" he went on. "You know yourself that only one thing is possible.
I cannot force you into my arms, Louise. If you care to take up my life and break it in two, you can do it. But think what it means! I am not rich, but I am rich enough to take you where you will, to live with you in any country you desire. I don"t know what your scruples are--I shall never ask you again. But, dear, you must not! You must not send me away."
She was silent. She had dropped her veil and her head had sunk a little.
"If I believed that there was anybody else," he continued, "I would go away and leave you alone. If I doubted for a single moment that I could make you happy, I would not trouble you any more. But you belong to me, Louise! You have taken up your place in my life, in my heart! I cannot live without you! I do not think that you can live without me! You mustn"t try, dear! You mustn"t!"
He held her unresisting hand, but her face was hidden from him.
"What it is that you fancy comes between us I cannot tell," he continued, more gravely. "Only let me tell you this. We are no longer in any danger from Stephen Heneage. He has abandoned his quest altogether. He has told me so with his own lips."
"You are sure of that?" she asked softly.
"Absolutely," he answered.
She hesitated for a moment. He remained purposely silent. He was anxious to try and comprehend the drift of her thoughts.
"Do you know why?" she asked. "Did he find the task too difficult, or did he relinquish it from any other motive?"
"I am not sure," Wrayson answered. "I met him the night before last. He was very much altered. He had the appearance of a man altogether unnerved. Perhaps it was my fancy, but I got the idea--"