But though he had the mind to go, it was not without a word.

“I want you to walk with me as far as the door,” he said, gently.

Sylvia rose at once.  Since after all there must be words, the sooner they were spoken the better.  She followed him into the garden, making her little prayer that they might be very few, and that he would leave her to fight her battle and to hide her shame alone.

They crossed the lawn without a word.  He held open the garden door for her and she passed into the lane.  He followed and closed the door behind them.  In the lane a hired landau was waiting.  Chayne pointed to it.

“I want you to come away with me now,” he said, and since she looked at him with the air of one who does not understand, he explained, standing quietly beside her with his eyes upon her face.  And though he spoke quietly, there was in his eyes a hunger which belied his tones, and though he stood quietly, there was a tension in his attitude which betrayed extreme suspense.  “I want you to come away with me, I want you never to return.  I want you to marry me.”

The blood rushed into her cheeks and again fled from them, leaving her very white.  Her face grew mutinous like an angry child’s, but her eyes grew hard like a resentful woman’s.

“You ask me out of pity,” she said, in a low voice.

“That’s not true,” he cried, and with so earnest a passion that she could not but believe him.  “Sylvia, I came here meaning to ask you to marry me.  I ask you something more now, that is all.  I ask you to come to me a little sooner—­that is all.  I want you to come with me now.”

Sylvia leaned against the wall and covered her face with her hands.

“Please!” he said, making his appeal with a great simplicity.  “For I love you, Sylvia.”

She gave him no answer.  She kept her face still hid, and only her heaving breast bore witness to her stress of feeling.  Gently he removed her hands, and holding them in his, urged his plea.

“Ever since that day in Switzerland, I have been thinking of you, Sylvia, remembering your looks, your smile, and the words you spoke.  I crossed the Col Dolent the next day, and all the time I felt that there was some great thing wanting.  I said to myself, ‘I miss my friend.’  I was wrong, Sylvia.  I missed you.  Something ached in me—­has ached ever since.  It was my heart!  Come with me now!”

Sylvia had not looked at him, though she made no effort to draw her hands away, and still not looking at him, she answered in a whisper: 

“I can’t, I can’t.”

“Why?” he asked, “why?  You are not happy here.  You are no happier than you were at Chamonix.  And I would try so very hard to make you happy.  I can’t leave you here—­lonely, for you are lonely.  I am lonely too; all the more lonely because I carry about with me—­you—­you as you stood in the chalet at night looking through the open window, with the candle-light striking upward on your face, and with your reluctant smile upon your lips—­you as you lay on the top of the Aiguille d’Argentiere with the wonder of a new world in your eyes—­you as you said good-by in the sunset and went down the winding path to the forest.  If you only knew, Sylvia!”