Mr. Perrott was waiting for her.  Indeed, he had gone straight into the garden after luncheon, and had been walking up and down the path for more than half an hour, in a state of acute suspense.

“I’m late as usual!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him.  “Well, you must forgive me; I had to pack up. . . .  My word!  It looks stormy!  And that’s a new steamer in the bay, isn’t it?”

She looked at the bay, in which a steamer was just dropping anchor, the smoke still hanging about it, while a swift black shudder ran through the waves.  “One’s quite forgotten what rain looks like,” she added.

But Mr. Perrott paid no attention to the steamer or to the weather.

“Miss Murgatroyd,” he began with his usual formality, “I asked you to come here from a very selfish motive, I fear.  I do not think you need to be assured once more of my feelings; but, as you are leaving so soon, I felt that I could not let you go without asking you to tell me—­have I any reason to hope that you will ever come to care for me?”

He was very pale, and seemed unable to say any more.

The little gush of vitality which had come into Evelyn as she ran downstairs had left her, and she felt herself impotent.  There was nothing for her to say; she felt nothing.  Now that he was actually asking her, in his elderly gentle words, to marry him, she felt less for him than she had ever felt before.

“Let’s sit down and talk it over,” she said rather unsteadily.

Mr. Perrott followed her to a curved green seat under a tree.  They looked at the fountain in front of them, which had long ceased to play.  Evelyn kept looking at the fountain instead of thinking of what she was saying; the fountain without any water seemed to be the type of her own being.

“Of course I care for you,” she began, rushing her words out in a hurry; “I should be a brute if I didn’t.  I think you’re quite one of the nicest people I’ve ever known, and one of the finest too.  But I wish . . .  I wish you didn’t care for me in that way.  Are you sure you do?” For the moment she honestly desired that he should say no.

“Quite sure,” said Mr. Perrott.

“You see, I’m not as simple as most women,” Evelyn continued.  “I think I want more.  I don’t know exactly what I feel.”

He sat by her, watching her and refraining from speech.

“I sometimes think I haven’t got it in me to care very much for one person only.  Some one else would make you a better wife.  I can imagine you very happy with some one else.”

“If you think that there is any chance that you will come to care for me, I am quite content to wait,” said Mr. Perrott.

“Well—­there’s no hurry, is there?” said Evelyn.  “Suppose I thought it over and wrote and told you when I get back?  I’m going to Moscow; I’ll write from Moscow.”

But Mr. Perrott persisted.

“You cannot give me any kind of idea.  I do not ask for a date . . . that would be most unreasonable.”  He paused, looking down at the gravel path.