'So you should.'

'Of course you'd say so.'

'Or do you think you can't?'

He missed, or ignored, her point. 'He's ill. I don't want to leave
him'; and in a louder voice he added, almost shouted, 'I don't want to
leave you!'

Her grey eyes were watching the swinging catkins, her hand, lifting
the primroses, hid a smile. Again he had the benefit of her profile,
the knot of her dark, thick hair and the shadowy line of her
eyelashes, but she made no comment on his remark and after a moment of
sombre staring he uttered the one word, 'Well?'

'Yes?'

'Well, I've told you.'

'Oh, I think you ought to go.'

'Then you don't love me?'

From under her raised eyebrows she looked at him steadily. 'No, I
don't love you,' she said slowly. There was no need to consider her
answer: she was sure of it. She was fond of him, but she could not
romantically love some one who looked and behaved like a spoilt boy.
She glanced from his handsome, frowning face in which the mouth was
opening for protest to a scene perfectly set for a love affair. There