“Dear,” he said, gently—­“you will be wanted downstairs in a few minutes—­Mr. Bayliss wishes you to be present when he reads Uncle Hugo’s will.”

She made a little gesture of pain and dissent.

“I do not want to hear it,” she said—­“but I will come.”

He looked at her with anxiety and tenderness.

“You have eaten nothing since early morning; you look so pale and weak—­let me get you something—­a glass of wine.”

“No, thank you,” she answered—­“I could not touch a morsel—­not just yet.  Oh, Robin, it hurts me to hear all those voices in the great hall!—­men eating and drinking there, as if he were still alive!—­and they have only just laid him down in the cold earth—­ so cold and dark!”

She shuddered violently.

“I do not think it is right,” she went on—­“to allow people to love each other at all if death must separate them for ever.  It seems only a cruelty and wickedness.  Now that I have seen what death can do, I will never love anyone again!”

“No—­I suppose you will not,” he said, somewhat bitterly—­“yet, you have never known what love is—­you do not understand it.”

She sighed, deeply.

“Perhaps not!” she said—­“And I’m not sure that I want to understand it—­not now.  What love I had in my heart is all buried —­with Dad and the roses.  I am not the same girl any more—­I feel a different creature—­grown quite old!”

“You cannot feel older than I do,” he replied—­“but you do not think of me at all,—­why should you?  I never used to think you selfish, Innocent!—­you have always been so careful and considerate of the feelings of others—­yet now!—­well!—­are you not so much absorbed in your own grief as to be forgetful of mine?  For mine is a double grief—­a double loss—­I have lost my uncle and best friend—­and I shall lose you because you will not love me, though I love you with all my heart and only want to make you happy!”

Her sad eyes met his with a direct, half-reproachful gaze.

“You think me selfish?”

“No!—­no, Innocent!—­but—­”

“I see!” she said—­“You think I ought to sacrifice myself to you, and to Dad’s last wish.  You would expect me to spoil your life by marrying you unwillingly and without love—­”

“I tell you you know nothing about love!” he interrupted her, impatiently.

“So you imagine,” she answered quietly—­“but I do know one thing—­ and it is that no one who really loves a person wishes to see that person, unhappy.  To love anybody means that above all things in the world you desire to see the beloved one well and prosperous and full of gladness.  You cannot love me or you would not wish me to do a thing that would make me miserable.  If I loved you, I would marry you and devote my life to yours—­but I do not love you, and, therefore, I should only make you wretched if I became your wife.  Do not let us talk of this any more—­it tires me out!”