stand it. I
don't wonder. You've let those little monkeys tire you out. You've
nearly got a sunstroke and you feel as if you'd rather die than go
through another day like yesterday? Well, you shan't. There'll never be
another day like yesterday."

"No. Never," she said; and her sobs choked her.

"Why should there be? They'll have a governess. You don't suppose I
meant you to have them on your hands all the time?"

She went on crying softly. He sat on the arm of her chair and put his
arm round her and dried her eyes.

"Don't be unhappy about it, Kitty. I understand. You're not marrying
them, dear; you're marrying me."

She broke loose from him.

"I can't marry you," she cried. "I can't give you what you want."

"Do you mean that you can't care for me? Is that what you're trying to
tell me all the time?"

He moved and she cowered back into her chair.

"I--I _can't_ tell you."

He had turned from her. He was leaning his arms along the mantelshelf;
he had bowed his head on them.

They remained for some minutes so; she cowering back; he with his face
hidden from her.

"Do you mind telling me," he said presently, "if there's anybody else
that you----"

"That I care for? No, Robert, there's no one."

"Are you quite sure? Quite honest. Think."

"Do you mean Wilfrid Marston?"

"Yes."

"I certainly do not care for _him_."

He raised his head at that; but he did not look at her.

"Thank God!" he said.

"Do you think as badly of him as all that?"

"Don't ask me what I think of him."

"Would you think badly of me if I'd married him?"

"I--I couldn't have stood it, Kitty."

"I am not going to marry him."

"You haven't said yet that you don't care for me?"

"No. I haven't."

He turned and stooped over her, compelling her to look at him.

"Say it then," he said.

She drew back her face from his and put up her hands between them. He
rose and stood before her and looked down at her. The blue of her eyes
had narrowed, the pupils stared at him, black and feverish. Her mouth,
which had been tight-shut, was open slightly. A thin flush blurred its
edges. Her breath came through, short and sharp.

"You're ill," he said. "You must go back to bed."

"No," she said. "I've got to tell you something."

"If you do I shan't believe it."

"What won't you believe?"

"That you don't care for me. I can't believe it."

"You'd better, Robert."

"I don't. There's something wrong. You must tell me what it is.