Aleck did not move. "I don't want you to 'talk to' me about it; all I
want is for you to say 'yes.'"

"But I'm not going to say 'yes;' at least, I don't think I am. Do sit
down."

Aleck started straight for the gilt chair.

"Oh, no; not that! You are four times too big for that chair.
Besides, it's quite valuable; it's a Louis Quinze."

Aleck indulged in a vicious kick at the ridiculous thing, picked up an
enormous leather-bottomed chair made apparently of lead, and placed it
jauntily almost beside Miss Reynier's chair, but facing the other way.

"This is much better, thank you," he said. "Now tell me why you think
you are not going to say 'yes' to me."

Mélanie's mood of softness had not left her; but sitting there, face to
face with this man, face to face with his seriousness, his masculine
will and strength, she felt that she had something yet to struggle for,
some deep personal right to be acknowledged. It was with a dignity, an
aloofness, that was quite real, yet very sweet, that she met this
American lover. He had her hand in his firm grasp, but he was waiting
for her to speak. He was giving her the hearing that was, in his
opinion, her right.

"In the first place," Mélanie began, "you ought to know more about
me--who I am, and all that sort of thing. I am, in one sense, not at