‘I want you,’ he went on, speaking slowly and deliberately, ’to give me your promise that you will not waltz any more until the year is out that I spoke of.’

She answered presently, speaking in a measured sort of way, ‘That is one thing.  The other?’

‘I want your promise to the first.’

‘Suppose I am not ready to give it?’

‘I ask for it, all the same.’

Again she sorted her words.

’Well then—­I am not ready,—­I mean, not willing.  And do not you see—­at least, I mean, you do not see—­how—­unreasoning a request it is?’ The adjective gave her some trouble.

‘Not unreasonable?’

‘I said nothing about reasonable.’

’No.  But I must have your promise.  If you knew the world better, it would not be necessary for me to make the request; I know that; but the fact that you are—­simple as a wild lily,—­ does not make me willing to see the wild lily lose any of its charm.  Neither will I, Hazel, as long as I have the care of it.  So long as you are even in idea mine, no man shall—­touch you, again, as I saw it last night!  You are precious to me beyond such a possibility.  Give me your promise.’

‘You shall not talk to me so!’ she cried, shrinking off in the old fashion.  ’I will not let you!  You have done it before.  And I tell you that I never—­touch anybody—­except with the tip end of my glove!’

’No more than the wild lily does.  But, Hazel, no one shall touch the lily, while I have care of it!’ He spoke in the low tone of determination.  Hazel did not answer.

‘Promise me!’ he said again, when he found that she was silent.

‘By your own shewing it is hardly needed,’ she said.  ’I suppose obedience will do as well.’

‘Let it be a matter of grace, not of obligation.’

‘There is some grace in obedience.  Why do you want a promise?’

’To make the matter certain.  Else you may be tempted, or cajoled, into what—­if you knew better—­you would never do.  You will know better by and by.  Meanwhile I stand in the way.  Come! give me the promise!’

There was a little bit of laugh at that, saying various things.

‘I shall not be cajoled,’ she said.  ’But I will not make promises.’

’How then will you make me secure that what I do not wish shall not be done?’

‘It is not a matter about which I am anxious, sir,’ said Miss Wych coolly.

‘I am not anxious,’ he said very quietly, ’because one way or another I will be secure.  Do you think I can hold you in my heart as I do, and suffer other men to approach you as I saw it last night?  Never again, Hazel!’

Dead silence on the lady’s part; this ‘mixed-up’ style of remark being, as she found, extremely hard to answer.

‘What shall I do?’ he said gently.

‘About what, sir?’

‘Making myself secure?’

‘I do not know,’ said Wych Hazel.  ’No suggestion occurs to me that would be worth your consideration.’