He stood up, paced the room for a few moments, came and stood beside her.

“Once,” he said very low, “you admitted that you dare go anywhere with me.  Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Those are your rooms, I believe,” pointing to a closed door far down the south corridor.

“Yes.”

“Take me there now.”

“I—­cannot do that——­”

“Yes, you can.  You must.”

“Now?—­Duane.”

“Yes, now—­now!  I tell you our time is now if it ever is to be at all.  Don’t waste words.”

“What do you want to say to me that cannot be said here?” she asked in consternation.

He made no answer, but she found herself on her feet and moving slowly along beside him, his hand just touching her arm as guide.

“What is it, Duane?” she asked fearfully, as she laid her hand on the knob and turned to look at his altered face.

He made no answer.  She hesitated, shivered, opened the door, hesitated again, slowly crossed the threshold, turned and admitted him.

The western sun flooded the silent chamber of rose and gray; a breeze moved the curtains, noiselessly; the scent of flowers freshened the silence.

There was a divan piled with silken cushions; he placed several for her; she stood irresolute for a moment, then, with a swift, unquiet side glance at him, seated herself.

“What is it?” she asked, looking up, her face beginning to reflect the grave concern in his.

“I want you to marry me, Geraldine.”

“Is—­is that what——­”

“Partly.  I want you to love me, too.  But I’ll attend to that if you’ll marry me—­I’ll guarantee that.  I—­I will guarantee—­more than that.”

She was still looking up, searching his sombre face.  She saw the muscles tighten along the jaw; saw the grave lines deepening.  A sort of bewildered fear possessed her.

“I—­am not in love with you, Duane.”  She added hastily, “I don’t trust you either.  How could I——­”

“Yes, you do trust me.”

“After what you have done to Rosalie——­”

“You know that all is square there.  Say so!”

She gazed at the floor, convinced, but not answering.

“Do you believe I love you?”

She shook her head, eyes still on the floor.

“Tell me the truth!  Look at me!”

She said with an effort:  “You think you care for me....  You believe you do, I suppose——­”

“And you believe it, too!  Give me my chance—­take your own!”

“My chance?”—­with a flash of anger.

“Yes; take it, and give me mine.  I tell you, Geraldine, we are going to need each other desperately some day.  I need you now—­to-morrow you’ll need me more; and the day after, and after that in perilous days to follow our need will be the greater for these hours wasted—­can’t you understand by this time that we’ve nothing to hold us steady through the sort of life we’re born to except—­each other——­”