ve made me really love you. I
don't know why you did it, for I surely had not hurt you in any way.
However, you did it, and you must have had some reason. You found me a
boy; you have made me a man. Well--you must love me, too."

The boat had begun to drift, and was alone on the burnished water.

Lady Harden clasped her hands nervously.

"I must love you! What _rot_! Come, row to the landing, please. I am
going back to the house, and you must go on to the Westerleighs'."

"Dagny--I say, you must love me, too."

"You are crazy."

"I am not."

"Well, I do not love you, and I never shall. Now let us end this
melodrama."

Cleeve took up the oars and rowed rapidly to the landing place. Then,
as she stepped onto the platform, he took her into his arms.

"You _must_," he said, looking down at her. "It's all your own fault.
You did it willfully. Now you must love me."

His dogged persistency puzzled her and routed all her usual array of
graceful phrases.

"Am I being invited to--elope with you?" she asked, laughing a little
shrilly.

He flushed. "No. I--love you. But--you must feel something of this
that is hurting me. Hurting? Why, it's _hell_."

"Hell! I am sorry--indeed I am----"

"Oh, _that_ does no good. Words can't help. You have got to suffer,
too," he returned, still holding her round the shoulders.

It was, in spite of the thrill of the unusual that she distinctly
felt, absurd. It ought to be laughed at. So she laughed.

"How can you make me suffer, you baby?" she asked.

"Well, I can. Woman have their weapons, and men have theirs. You've
made a man of me. I know a lot of things I didn't know last week.
Among others, I know that you couldn't have been as you have been
unless I had attracted you pretty strongly. You are"--he went on, with
the green coolness that sat so oddly on his tense young face--"pretty
near to loving me at this moment."

"That is not true."

"Oh, yes, it is, Lady Harden. It's because I am young, and big,
and--good looking. These things count for you as well as for us. And
you are thirty. I read a book the other day about a woman of thirty.
Thirty is young enough, but thirty-five isn't, and--thirty-five is
coming."

Her eyes closed for an instant. "You are brutal."

"Yes, I am very brutal. You were brutal, too. You see, I remembered
that novel while I was dressing for dinner, and it taught me a lot.
You and _it_ have made me rather wise between you. Well, I love you,"
he