She looked away from him towards the distant mountains rimming the horizon.

"I meant just what I said. I can't marry you," she answered mechanically.

"But that's absurd! You've known I cared--you've cared, too--all these
weeks. And last night you promised--you said--"

"Last night!" She swung round and faced him. "I tell you we've got to
_forget_ last night--count it out. It--it was just an interlude--"

She broke off, blenching at the abrupt change in his expression. Up till
now his face had been full of an incredulous, boyish bewilderment, half
tender, half chiding. Within himself he had refused to believe that there
was any serious intent behind her letter. It was fruit of some foolish
misunderstanding or shy feminine withdrawal, and he was here to straighten
it all out, to reassure her. But that word "interlude"! Had she been
deliberately playing with him after all? Women did such things--sometimes.
His features took on a sudden sternness.

"An interlude?" he repeated quietly. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Will
you explain?"

Her shoulders moved resentfully.

"Why do you want to force me into explanations?" she burst out.
"Surely--_surely_ you understand? We can't marry--we haven't money enough!"

There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"I've enough money to marry on, if it comes to that," he said at last,