"_You_? O Philidor!"

She turned away from him and looked up at the sky.

"I--I mean it," he repeated. "I think you had better."

He sought her hand and she trembled under his touch.

"Fate has thrown us together--twice. Its intention is obvious. Let Fate look after the rest--"

"You, Philidor. Oh--"

She buried her head in her arms still quivering, but he only held her hand more tightly.

"Don't child. I did not mean to frighten you. I would not hurt you for anything in the world. I thought you needed me--"

At that she straightened quickly, turned a flushed face toward him and he saw that she was shaking, not with sobs, but with merriment.

"O Philidor--_such_ a wooing! You'd marry me because I need you. Was ever a dependent female in such a position!" And she began laughing again, her whole figure shaking. "I need you--forsooth! How do you know I do? Have I told you so?" she asked scornfully.

"You need me," he repeated doggedly.

"And that is why I should marry you? You who preach the gospel of sincerity and love for love's sake?"

"I--I love you," he stammered.

But she only laughed at him the more.

"_You_. You wear your pa.s.sion lightly. _Such_ a tempestuous wooing!

You ask me to marry you because you fear I might do worse--because you believe that I'm irresponsible, and that without you I'll end in spiritual beggary. I appreciate your motives. They're large, ingenuous and heroic. Thanks. Love is not a matter of expediency or marriage a search for a guardian. If they were, _mon ami_, I should have long ago married my Trust Company. _You_--John Markham!"

He sat silent under her mockery, his long fingers clasped over his knees, his gaze upon the field below them, his mind recalling unpleasantly a similar incident in his unromantic career. Hermia had stopped laughing, had left him suddenly and was now picking one of Pre Gu?gou's yellow roses. Her irony had cut him to the quick, as Olga's had, her mockery dulled his wits and rendered him incapable of reply, but curiously enough he now felt neither anger nor chagrin at her contempt--only a deep dismay that he had spoken the words that had risen unbidden to his lips, that placed in jeopardy the joy of their fellowship which had owed its very existence to the free, unsentimental character of their relations. He knew that, however awkwardly he had expressed it, he had spoken the truth. He loved her, had loved her since Thimble Island, when she had spoiled his foreground by eliminating every detail of foreground and background by becoming both. Since then to him she had always been Joy, Gayety, Innocence, Enchantment and he adored her in secret.

Since they had met in France he had guarded the secret carefully--often by an air of indifference which fitted him well, a relic of his years of seclusion, and a native awkwardness which was always more or less in evidence before women. Whatever his secret misgivings, he had blessed the opportunity which chance and her own wild will had thrown in his way. And now--she would leave him, of course. There was nothing left for her to do.

Slowly, fearfully, he raised his eyes until she came within the range of their vision, first to her shoes, then to her stockings, her skirt, gaudy jacket and at last met her eyes, which were smiling at him saucily over the rosebud which she was holding to her lips. But he only sat glowering stupidly at her.

"O Philidor!" she cried. "You look just as you did on the night when I slipped down through the pergola."

"Hermia!" He rose and approached her. "I forbid you."

She retreated slowly, brandishing the blossom beneath his nose.

"Without--er--the face powder!"

"You have no right to speak of that."

"Oh, haven't I? You've just given it to me."

"How?"

"By proving to me that I wasn't mistaken in you. O Philidor, did you propose to her, too, from purely philanthropic--"

"Stop!" He seized her by both wrists and held her straight in front of him, while he looked squarely into her eyes. "You _shall_ not speak--"

"Or was it because she 'needed' you, Philidor, as I do?"

"There's nothing between Olga and me," he said violently. "There never was--"

"Face powder," she repeated.

"Listen to me. You shall," fiercely. "You've got to know the truth now. There's no other woman in the world but you. There never has been another. There won't be. I love you, child. I always have--from the first. I wanted to keep it form you because I didn't want to make you unhappy, because I wanted you here--in Vagabondia. When the chance came to take you, I welcomed it, though I knew I was doing you a wrong.

I wanted to meet you on even terms, away from the reek of your fashionable set--to see the woman in you bud and blossom under the open skies away from the hothouse plants of your vicious circle. Even there at 'Wake Robin,' I wanted to tear you away from them. They were not your kind. In the end you would have been the same as they. That was the pity of it. Perhaps it was pity that first taught me how much you were to me--how much you were worth saving from them--from yourself. I seemed impossible. I was nothing to you then--less than I am now--a queer sort of an amphibious beast that had left its more familiar element and taken to walks abroad among the elect of the earth. But I loved you then, Hermia, I love you now, and I've told you so. I hadn't meant to, but I'm not sorry. I'm glad that you know it--even though your smiles deride me; even though I know I've spoiled your idyl here and made a mockery of my own Fool's Paradise."

Her head was lowered now and he could not see her eyes, but he was sure they must be still laughing at him. When he had finished he released her and turned away.

"To-morrow we shall be in Verneuil," he said quietly. "I will give you money to buy clothes and put you on the train for Paris."

There was a long silence, broken by the sound of Pre Gu?gou's chickens flapping to their roosting bars. The saffron heavens had changed to purple, and in the spire of the village campanile a bell tolled solemnly the strokes of Philidor's doom. He did not see her face. He had not dared to look at it. But when the bell stopped ringing, Hermia's voice was speaking softly.

"Do you want me to go, Philidor?"

Her tone still mocked and he did not turn toward her.

"No--but you had better," he murmured.

"Suppose I refused to go to Paris. What would you do?"

He did not reply.

"Could you treat me so? Is it _my_ fault that you--you fell in love with me? _I'm_ not responsible for that--am I? I didn't _make_ you do it, did I? Would you have me give up all this? Think a moment, Philidor. Wouldn't it be cruel of you--after letting me be what I am--after letting me know what I _can_ be--after giving me an ego, an individuality, and making me a success in life--to send me back to Paris to be a mere nonent.i.ty? You couldn't, I'll not go."

Her voice, half mocking, half tender, rose at the end in a note of stubbornness.

"Of course, you will do as you please," he muttered.

He felt rather than heard her coming toward him.

"Don't be cross with me," she pleaded. "I--I don't want to go away--from this--from _you_, Philidor."

He turned quickly--but she thrust out her hand with a frank gesture which he could not misinterpret.

"You're the best friend I have in the world," she said.

He took her hand in both of his and held it a moment.

"That's something," he muttered. "I'll try to be--to deserve your faith in me."

He looked so woebegone that her heat went out to him, but she only laughed gaily.