“Miss Searight,” he began, his harsh, bass voice pitched even lower than usual, “what do you think I am down here for?  This is not the only part of the world where I could recuperate, I suppose, and as for spending God’s day in chipping at stones, like a professor of a young ladies’ seminary”—­he hurled the hammer from him into the bushes—­“that for geology!  Now we can talk.  You know very well that I love you, and I believe that you love me.  I have come down here to ask you to marry me.”

Lloyd might have done any one of a dozen things—­might have answered in any one of a dozen ways.  But what she did do, what she did say, took Bennett completely by surprise.  A little coldly and very calmly she answered: 

“You believe—­you say you believe that I—­” she broke off, then began again:  “It is not right for you to say that to me.  I have never led you to believe that I cared for you.  Whatever our relations are to be, let us have that understood at once.”

Bennett uttered an impatient exclamation “I am not good at fencing and quibbling,” he declared.  “I tell you that I love you with all my heart.  I tell you that I want you to be my wife, and I tell you that I know you do love me.  You are not like other women; why should you coquette with me?  Good God!  Are you not big enough to be above such things?  I know you are.  Of all the people in the world we two ought to be above pretence, ought to understand each other.  If I did not know you cared for me I would not have spoken.”

“I don’t understand you,” she answered.  “I think we had better talk of other things this morning.”

“I came down here to talk of just this and nothing else,” he declared.

“Very well, then,” she said, squaring her shoulders with a quick, brisk movement, “we will talk of it.  You say we two should understand each other.  Let us come to the bottom of things at once.  I despise quibbling and fencing as much, perhaps, as you.  Tell me how have I ever led you to believe that I cared for you?”

“At a time when our last hope was gone,” answered Bennett, meeting her eyes, “when I was very near to death and thought that I should go to my God within the day, I was made happier than I think I ever was in my life before by finding out that I was dear to you—­that you loved me.”

Lloyd searched his face with a look of surprise and bewilderment.

“I do not understand you,” she repeated.

“Oh!” exclaimed Bennett with sudden vehemence, “you could say it to Ferriss; why can’t you say it to me?”

“To Mr. Ferriss?”

“You could tell him that you cared.”

“I—­tell Mr. Ferriss—­that I cared for you?” She began to smile.  “You are a little absurd, Mr. Bennett.”