“Anne!” he said.  He turned back to her.  He took the hands she gave him.  “Anne,” he said again, speaking rapidly, in a voice that shook, “I have tried to play a straight game with you.  I have warned you.  I am not the right sort.  You know what I am.  You know.”

“Yes,” Anne said, “I know.”  She raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes.  “You are all the world to me, Nap,” she said.  “You are the man I love.”

His arms caught her, crushed her fiercely to him, held her fast.

“Say it again!” he said, his fiery eyes flaming.  “Say it!  Say it!”

But Anne said nought.  Only for a long, long second she gazed into his face; then in utter silence she turned her lips to his.

* * * * *

They spent the whole of the long June day together in the garden.  Neither knew how the time went till evening came upon them all unawares—­a golden evening of many fragrances.

They came at last along the green path under the lilac trees, and here by the rustic seat Nap stopped.

“I’ll leave you here,” he said.

She looked at him in surprise.  “Won’t you dine with me?”

“No,” he said restlessly.  “I won’t come in.  I should stifle under a roof to-night.”

“But we will dine outside,” she said.

He shook his head.  “No, I’m going.  Anne,” he caught her hand to his lips, “I hate leaving you.  How long must I be condemned to it?”

She touched his shoulder with her cheek.  “Don’t you know that I hate it too?” she said.

“Then—­” He put his arm round her.

“Next week, Nap,” she said.

“You mean it?”

“Yes.  I mean it.”

“You will marry me next week.  What day?”

“Any day,” she said, with her face against his shoulder.

“Any day, Anne?  You mean that?  You mean me to choose?”

She laughed softly.  “I shall leave everything to you.”

“Then I choose Sunday,” Nap said, without an instant’s consideration, “as early in the morning as possible.  I shall go straight to the padre and arrange it right now.”

“Very well,” she said.  “I’ll try to be ready.”

He threw up his head with the old arrogant gesture.  “You must be ready,” he said imperiously.  “I shall come and fetch you myself.”

She laughed again at that.  “Indeed you will not.  I shall go with
Mrs. Errol.”

He conceded this point, albeit grudgingly.  “And afterwards?” he said.

“The afterwards shall be yours, dear,” she answered.

“You mean that?”

“Of course I mean it.”

“Then, Anne”—­he bent his face suddenly, his lips moved against her forehead—­“will you come with me to Bramhurst?”

“Bramhurst!” She started a little.  The name to her was no more than a bitter memory among the many other bitter memories of her life.

“Will you?” he said.