"It's jolly here and cool and out of the crush. You don't want to watch the Johannesburg chap, do you?"

She would have preferred to watch the play on the centre court. It was clear that the Johannesburg man would carry off the championship in the men's singles; but she gave in to his wish and decided to remain where she was.

Sinclair's manner was nervous and preoccupied; but the girl did not appear to notice it; she did not want to talk. Her companion smoked cigarettes and stared with a sort of strained attention at the game and jerked out an occasional comment. Presently he remarked apropos of nothing:

"I had a rise yesterday. That was an altogether unexpected stroke of luck."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, turning an interested, unsuspicious face towards him. "I am pleased. Why didn't you tell me before?"

He laughed.

"Too absorbed in our game," he said, "to think of it. But I'm thinking of it now. It makes a difference."

"I suppose it does. You'll be bursting forth into extravagances. Why don't you keep a car?"

"Not yet," he said. "I want other things more urgently than that."

"What things?"

"I'll tell you to-night," he said, reddening.

"Yes," she said, her thoughts reverting to the discussion in the pavilion. "During half a programme you'll find time enough to tell me a good deal."

He glanced at her quickly.

"You didn't mind?" he said. "It's only the second half; and you'll be tired. You won't want to dance much."

"Oh, indeed! Then what do you propose we shall do? If we don't dance we might as well remain at home."

"We'll dance all you want to," he replied. "And we'll go for a stroll along the sea wall. The weather is too hot for being inside. You shall do what you like anyhow."

"You are always so amenable, George," she said, smiling. "And you always get your own way in the end."

He smiled back at her with gay confidence.

"My luck's in," he replied. "The G.o.ds smile on me. I told you, Esme, that I meant to win."

"I did my utmost to prevent you," she said.

"You understand co-operation, partner," he returned coolly. "That's good enough for me."

She did not in the least understand the drift of his remarks, although he believed he was tactfully preparing her for the declaration he intended making that night. The last thing she antic.i.p.ated was the proposal which hovered continually in the forefront of Sinclair's mind.

He intended to put his luck to the test that evening, and felt fairly confident as to the result. He had not the remotest suspicion of possessing a rival. The road ahead, so far as he could see, was perfectly clear.

Book 2--CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

It seemed to Sinclair that all the conditions that night favoured his suit. It was a perfect evening, warm and still, with a brilliant moon in a cloudless sky lighting the world with a luminous whiteness in which everything was revealed scarcely less clearly than in the daylight. It was a night for lovers, for the open air and solitude; it was not a night for dancing. Sinclair, after the first dance, which he had with Esme, was content to remain on the outskirts of the crowd and look on at the rest. The floor was thronged with dancers. The lights, the music, the colour of the moving crowd, appealed pleasantly to the senses. He liked to watch; and every now and again he caught Esme's eye and won a smile from her which cheered him. She appeared more than usually sweet and kind that night, he thought.

The supper dance gave him the right to claim her again. In the interim he had done a lot of thinking. He had his phrases turned and clear in his mind. He knew very definitely what he wanted to say; he had rehea.r.s.ed it in his thoughts endless times. And he knew the right atmosphere for the deliverance of those neatly turned sentences. He wasn't going to fling the thing at her in a crowded room with numberless people present. They would slip away together in the moonlight, and stroll along the sea wall, against which the tiny waves broke softly, running in and curling round the rocks, slapping musically against the stonework which checked their further advance. He could tell her to the accompaniment of the sea what he could not tell her in a hot and crowded place. He wanted her to himself, away from these others.

It was not a difficult matter to persuade her to go with him. With the finish of supper they left the hall together, crossed the moonlit square, pa.s.sed the Customs House, and so on to the sea wall, where the quiet of the night was undisturbed; the swish of lapping water and the low murmur of the sea were the only audible sounds in the surrounding stillness.

He sat down beside her on a seat cut into the wall, and remained very still, holding her hand and looking away to where the ships rode at anchor far out on the silver sea. All the things which he had meant to say to her, all his carefully planned sentences, eluded him; he felt intensely, horribly nervous as he sat there in the growing silence, holding her hand and looking out across the sea.

The girl sat and looked at the water also and forgot the man beside her.

Her thoughts were away from her present surroundings. She was thinking of a sentence in one of Hallam's letters, while she sat silent in the moonlight and saw the surface of the sea, as he had seen it from his window while he wrote his letter to her, splashed with silver, broken up and spread over it, a running liquid fire. It was here just as he had described it--the same sea, the same moon,--with the waste of waters intervening, dividing them in everything but thought. Sinclair had made a mistake in taking her down to the sea.

"Esme!" he said presently, breaking the dragging silence, and pressing her hand warmly in his strong grasp. "Esme!"

She turned her face to his, wholly unaware of the emotional stress under which he laboured, but conscious of a quality in his voice which rendered it unfamiliar. She saw his face close to hers, strained and white in the moonlight, heard his breathing, hard and deep, like the breathing of a man after violent exercise, and felt a faint surprise.

Dimly she began to realise that something unusual was happening; a look of apprehension grew in her eyes.

He groped about after the sentences he had so carefully prepared, but his mind was a blank. He could think of nothing effective to say; and all the while her eyes, puzzled and questioning, were on his face.

"I love you," he mumbled presently, and took heart of grace when the words were out and pulled her swiftly to him and kissed her. "Dear, I love you with all my soul. I want to marry you."

Very gently she freed herself from his hold, and drew back, and sat scrutinising him with ever growing distress. She liked him so well.

She hated having to hurt him; but it had never occurred to her that he was in love with her. His affection had seemed so frankly friendly hitherto.

"George, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know. I don't feel towards you like that."

"Perhaps not now. But you will," he suggested. "I've been a little abrupt. I ought to have waited."

"It wouldn't have made any difference," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. I'm very fond of you; but that's all," she added convincingly.

"Well, look here! I'm not taking 'No' right off like that. I'm going to wait--"

"No," she interrupted quickly. "You mustn't think that. I shan't change."

His face fell.

"You don't mean that there is some one else?" he asked.

For a moment or two she did not answer; then she nodded, without speaking, and put out a hand and touched his arm.

"My dear," she said, "don't ask me questions. It is quite possible that I shall never marry the man I love, but I cannot marry any one else.

I'm sorry. I didn't think you cared for me like that. I wish you didn't. You must put me out of your thoughts."

He smiled faintly.

"That's not easily done," he replied. "Besides, I don't want to. Like you, I may never marry the girl I love, but at least I cannot love any one else. You are the one and only girl for me. I know. I'm not a moonstruck boy. You'll let me keep your friendship, won't you? I won't take advantage of it."

Tears came into her eyes. She had never liked him so much as in that moment. The idea of giving up his friendship had not occurred to her until he begged the privilege of retaining it. She did not want to give it up. It was one of the pleasant things in her life.