The place was deserted, lighted only by a high window that looked into a billiard-room.  The window was closed, but the rattle of the balls and careless voices of the players came through the silence.  A dusty bench was let into the wall below it.

“Do you like this place?” asked Fletcher Hill.

She glanced around her with a little nervous laugh.  “It’s as good as any other, isn’t it?”

His hand still held her arm.  He bent slightly, looking into her face.  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said.

“Have you?” She tried to meet his look, but failed.  “What about?” she said, almost in a whisper.

He bent lower.  “Dot, are you afraid of me?” he said.

That brought her eyes to his face with a jerk.  “I—­I—­no—­of course not!” she stammered, in confusion.

“Quite sure?” he said.

She collected herself with an effort.  “Quite,” she told him with decision, and met his gaze with something of a challenge in her own.

But he disconcerted her the next moment.  She felt again the man’s grim mastery behind the iron of his patience.  “I want to talk to you,” he said, “about our marriage.”

“Ah!” It was scarcely more than a sharp intake of the breath, and as it escaped again Dot turned white to the lips.  His close scrutiny became suddenly more than she could bear, and she turned sharply from him.

He kept his hand upon her arm, but he made no further effort to restrain her, merely waiting mutely for her to speak.

In the room behind them there came the smart knocking of the balls, and a voice cried, “By Jove, he’s fluked again!  It’s the devil’s own luck!”

Dot flinched a little.  The careless voice jarred upon her.  Her nerves were all on edge.  Fletcher Hill’s hand was like a steel trap, cold and firm and merciless.  She longed to wrench herself free from it, yet felt too paralysed to move.

And still he waited, not urging her, yet by his very silence making her aware of a compulsion she could not hope to resist for long.

She turned to him at last in desperation.  “What—­have you to suggest?” she asked.

“I?” he said.  “I shall be ready at the end of the week—­if that will suit you.”

She gazed at him blankly.  “The end of the week!  But of course not—­of course not!  You are joking!”

“No, I am serious,” Fletcher said.  “Sit down a minute and let me explain!”

Then, as she hesitated, he very gently put her down upon the seat under the closed window, and stood before her, blocking her in.

“I have been wanting this opportunity of talking to you,” he said, “without Jack chipping in.  He’s a good fellow, and I know he is on my side.  But I have a fancy for scoring off my own bat.  Listen, Dot!  I am not suggesting anything very preposterous.  You have promised to marry me.  Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, breathlessly.  “Yes.”