Felix smiled at her, as if she had been telling him an amusing story about some one else.  “I can’t tell you how this interests me,” he said.  “Now you don’t recognize these reasons—­these obligations?”

“I am not sure; it is not easy.”  And she picked up her parasol and turned away, as if to descend the slope.

“Tell me this,” Felix went on, going with her:  “are you likely to give in—­to let them persuade you?”

Gertrude looked at him with the serious face that she had constantly worn, in opposition to his almost eager smile.  “I shall never marry Mr. Brand,” she said.

“I see!” Felix rejoined.  And they slowly descended the hill together, saying nothing till they reached the margin of the pond.  “It is your own affair,” he then resumed; “but do you know, I am not altogether glad?  If it were settled that you were to marry Mr. Brand I should take a certain comfort in the arrangement.  I should feel more free.  I have no right to make love to you myself, eh?” And he paused, lightly pressing his argument upon her.

“None whatever,” replied Gertrude quickly—­too quickly.

“Your father would never hear of it; I have n’t a penny.  Mr. Brand, of course, has property of his own, eh?”

“I believe he has some property; but that has nothing to do with it.”

“With you, of course not; but with your father and sister it must have.  So, as I say, if this were settled, I should feel more at liberty.”

“More at liberty?” Gertrude repeated.  “Please unfasten the boat.”

Felix untwisted the rope and stood holding it.  “I should be able to say things to you that I can’t give myself the pleasure of saying now,” he went on.  “I could tell you how much I admire you, without seeming to pretend to that which I have no right to pretend to.  I should make violent love to you,” he added, laughing, “if I thought you were so placed as not to be offended by it.”

“You mean if I were engaged to another man?  That is strange reasoning!” Gertrude exclaimed.

“In that case you would not take me seriously.”

“I take every one seriously,” said Gertrude.  And without his help she stepped lightly into the boat.

Felix took up the oars and sent it forward.  “Ah, this is what you have been thinking about?  It seemed to me you had something on your mind.  I wish very much,” he added, “that you would tell me some of these so-called reasons—­these obligations.”

“They are not real reasons—­good reasons,” said Gertrude, looking at the pink and yellow gleams in the water.

“I can understand that!  Because a handsome girl has had a spark of coquetry, that is no reason.”

“If you mean me, it ’s not that.  I have not done that.”

“It is something that troubles you, at any rate,” said Felix.

“Not so much as it used to,” Gertrude rejoined.