Lady Johnstone was one of those perfectly frank and honest persons who take no trouble to conceal their anxieties. From the fact that when she had met him on the way up to the hotel Brook had been walking alone with Clare Bowring, she had at once argued that a considerable intimacy existed between the two. Her meeting with Clare’s mother, and her sudden fancy for the elder woman, had momentarily allayed her fears, but they revived when it became clear to her that Brook sought every possible opportunity of being alone with the young girl. She was an eminently practical woman, as has been said, which perhaps accounted for her having made a good husband out of such a man as Adam Johnstone had been in his youth. She had never seen Brook devote himself to a young girl before now. She saw that Clare was good to look at, and she promptly concluded that Brook must be in love. The conclusion was perfectly correct, and Lady Johnstone soon grew very nervous. Brook was too young to marry, and even if he had been old enough his mother   thought that he might have made a better choice. At all events he should not entangle himself in an engagement with the girl; and she began systematically to interfere with his attempts to be alone with her. Brook was as frank as herself. He charged her with trying to keep him from Clare, and she did not deny that he was right. This led to a discussion on the third day after the Johnstones’ arrival.  
“You mustn’t make a fool of yourself, Brook, dear,” said Lady Johnstone. “You are not old enough to marry. Oh, I know, you are five-and-twenty, and ought to have come to years of discretion. But you haven’t, dear boy. Don’t forget that you are Adam Johnstone’s son, and that you may be expected to do all the things that he did before I married him. And he did a good many things, you know. I’m devoted to your father, and if he were in the room I should tell you just what I am telling you now. Before I married him he had about a thousand flirtations, and he had been married too, and had gone off with an actress—a shocking affair altogether! And his wife had divorced him. She must have been one of those horrible women who can’t forgive, you know. Now, my dear boy, you aren’t a bit better than your father, and that pretty Clare Bowring looks as though she would never forgive anybody who did anything   she didn’t like. Have you asked her to marry you?”
 
“Good heavens, no!” cried Brook. “She wouldn’t look at me!”
 
“Wouldn’t look at you? That’s simply ridiculous, you know! She’d marry you out of hand—unless she’s perfectly idiotic. And she doesn’t look that. Leave her alone, Brook. Talk to the mother. She’s one of the most delightful women I ever met. She has a dear, quiet way with her—like a very thoroughbred white cat that’s been ill and wants to be petted.”
 
“What extraordinary ideas you have, mother!” laughed Brook. “But on general principles I don’t see why I shouldn’t marry Miss Bowring, if she’ll have me. Why not? Her father was a gentleman, you like her mother, and as for herself—”
 
“Oh, I’ve nothing against her. It’s all against you, Brook dear. You are such a dreadful flirt, you know! You’ll get tired of the poor girl and make her miserable. I’m sure she isn’t practical, as I am. The very first time you look at some one else she’ll get on a tragic horse and charge the crockery—and there will be a most awful smash! It’s not easy to manage you Johnstones when you think you are in love. I ought to know!   ”
 
“I say, mother,” said Brook, “has anybody been telling you stories about me lately?”
 
“Lately? Let me see. The last I heard was that Mrs. Crosby—the one you all call Lady Fan—was going to get a divorce so as to marry you.”
 
“Oh—you heard that, did you?”
 
“Yes—everybody was talking about it and asking me whether it was true. It seems that she was with that party that brought you here. She left them at Naples, and came home at once by land, and they said she was giving out that she meant to marry you. I laughed, of course. But people wouldn’t talk about you so much, dear boy, if there were not so much to talk about. I know that you would never do anything so idiotic as that, and if Mrs. Crosby chooses to flirt with you, that’s her affair. She’s older than you, and knows more about it. But this is quite another thing. This is serious. You sha’n’t make love to that nice girl, Brook. You sha’n’t! I’ll do something dreadful, if you do. I’ll tell her all about Mrs. Leo Cairngorm or somebody like that. But you sha’n’t marry her and ruin her life.”
 
“You’re going in for philanthropy, mother,” said Brook, growing red. “It’s something new. You never made a fuss before.”
 
“No, of course not. You never were so foolish   before, my dear boy. I’m not bad myself, I believe. But you are, every one of you, and I love you all, and the only way to do anything with you is to let you run wild a little first. It’s the only practical, sensible way. And you’ve only just begun—how in the world do you dare to think of marrying? Upon my word, it’s too bad. I won’t wait. I’ll frighten the girl to death with stories about you, until she refuses to speak to you! But I’ve taken a fancy to her mother, and you sha’n’t make the child miserable. You sha’n’t, Brook. Oh, I’ve made up my mind! You sha’n’t. I’ll tell the mother too. I’ll frighten them all, till they can’t bear the sight of you.”
 
Lady Johnstone was energetic, as well as original, in spite of her abnormal size, and Brook knew that she was quite capable of carrying out her threat, and more also.
 
“I may be like my father in some ways,” he answered. “But I’m a good deal like you too, mother. I’m rather apt to stick to what I like, you know. Besides, I don’t believe you would do anything of the kind. And she isn’t inclined to like me, as it is. I believe she must have heard some story or other. Don’t make things any worse than they are.”
 
“Then don’t lose your head and ask her to marry you after a fortnight’s acquaintance,   Brook, because she’ll accept you, and you will make her perfectly wretched.”
 
He saw that it was not always possible to argue with his mother, and he said nothing more. But he reflected upon her point of view, and he saw that it was not altogether unjust, as she knew him. She could not possibly understand that what he felt for Clare Bowring bore not the slightest resemblance to what he had felt for Lady Fan, if, indeed, he had felt anything at all, which he considered doubtful now that it was over, though he would have been angry enough at the suggestion a month earlier. To tell the truth, he felt quite sure of himself at the present time, though all his sensations were more or less new to him. And his mother’s sudden and rather eccentric opposition unexpectedly strengthened his determination. He might laugh at what he called her originality, but he could not afford to jest at the prospect of her giving Clare an account of his life. She was quite capable of it, and would probably do it.
 
These preoccupations, however, were as nothing compared with the main point—the certainty that Clare would refuse him, if he offered himself to her, and when he left his mother he was in a very undetermined state of mind. If he should ask Clare to marry him now, she   would refuse him. But if his mother interfered, it would be much worse a week hence.
 
At last, as ill-luck would have it, he came upon her unexpectedly in the corridor, as he came out, and they almost ran against each other.
 
“Won’t you come out for a bit?” he asked quickly and in a low voice.
 
“Thanks—I have some letters to write,” answered the young girl. “Besides, it’s much too hot. There isn’t a breath of air.”
 
“Oh, it’s not really hot, you know,” said Brook, persuasively.
 
“Then it’s making a very good pretence!” laughed Clare.
 
“It’s ever so much cooler out of doors. If you’ll only come out for one minute, you’ll see. Really—I’m in earnest.”
 
“But why should I go out if I don’t want to?” asked the young girl.
 
“Because I asked you to—”
 
“Oh, that isn’t a reason, you know,” she laughed again.
 
“Well, then, because you really would, if I hadn’t asked you, and you only refuse out of a spirit of opposition,” suggested Brook.
 
“Oh—do you think so? Do you think I generally do just the contrary of what I’m asked to do?   ”
 
“Of course, everybody knows that, who knows you.” Brook seemed amused at the idea.
 
“If you think that—well, I’ll come, just for a minute, if it’s only to show you that you are quite wrong.”
 
“Thanks, awfully. Sha’n’t we go for the little walk that was interrupted when my people came the other day?”
 
“No—it’s too hot, really. I’ll walk as far as the end of the terrace and back—once. Do you mind telling me why you are so tremendously anxious to have me come out this very minute?”
 
“I’ll tell you—at least, I don’t know that I can—wait till we are outside. I should like to be out with you all the time, you know—and I thought you might come, so I asked you.”
 
“You seem rather confused,” said Clare gravely.
 
“Well, you know,” Brook answered as they walked along towards the dazzling green light that filled the door, “to tell the truth, between one thing and another—” He did not complete the sentence.
 
“Yes?” said Clare, sweetly. “Between one thing and another—what were you going to say?”
 
Brook did not answer as they went out into the hot, blossom-scented air, under the spreading vines.
 
 
“Do you mean to say it’s cooler here than indoors?” asked the young girl in a tone of resignation.
 
“Oh, it’s much cooler! There’s a breeze at the end of the walk.”
 
“The sea is like oil,” observed Clare. “There isn’t the least breath.”
 
“Well,” said Brook, “it can’t be really hot, because it’s only the first week in June after all.”
 
“This isn’t Scotland. It’s positively boiling, and I wish I hadn’t come out. Beware of first impulses—they are always right!”
 
But she glanced sideways at his face, for she knew that something was in the air. She was not sure what to expect of him just then, but she knew that there was something to expect. Her instinct told her that he meant to speak and to say more than he had yet said. It told her that he was going to ask her to marry him, then and there, in the blazing noon, under the vines, but her modesty scouted the thought as savouring of vanity. At all events she would prevent him from doing it if she could.
 
“Lady Johnstone seems to like this place,” she said, with a sudden effort at conversation. “She says that she means to make all sorts of expeditions.”
 
“Of course she will,” answered Brook, in a   half-impatient tone. “But, please—I don’t want to talk about my mother or the landscape. I really did want to speak to you, because I can’t stand this sort of thing any longer, you know.”
 
“What sort of thing?” asked Clare innocently, raising her eyes to his, as they reached the end of the walk.
 
It was very hot and still. Not a breath stirred the young vine-leaves overhead, and the scent of the last orange-blossoms hung in the motionless air. The heat rose quivering from the sea to southward, and the water lay flat as a mirror under the glory of the first summer’s day.
 
They stood still. Clare felt nervous, and tried to think of something to say which might keep him from speaking, and destroy the effect of her last question. But it was too late now. He was pale, for him, and his eyes were very bright.
 
“I can’t live without you—it comes to that. Can’t you see?”
 
The short plain words shook oddly as they fell from his lips. The two stood quite still, each looking into the other’s face. Brook grew paler still, but the colour rose in Clare’s cheeks. She tried to meet his eyes steadily, without feeling that he could control her.
 
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m very sorry.”
 
“You sha’n’t say that,” he answered, cutting   her words with his, and sharply. “I’m tired of hearing it. I’m glad I love you, whatever you do to me; and you must get to like me. You must. I tell you I can’t live without you.”
 
“But if I can’t—” Clare tried to say.
 
“You can—you must—you shall!” broke in Brook, hoarsely, his eyes growing brighter and fiercer. “I didn’t know what it was to love anybody, and now that I know, I can’t live without it, and I won’t.”
 
“But if—”
 
“There is no ‘if,’” he cried, in his low strong voice, fixing her eyes with his. “There’s no question of my going mad, or dying, or anything half so weak, because I won’t take no. Oh, you may say it a hundred times, but it won’t help you. I tell you I love you. Do you understand what that means? I’m in God’s own earnest. I’ll give you my life, but I won’t give you up. I’ll take you somehow, whether you will or not, and I’ll hide you somewhere, but you sha’n’t get away from me as long as you live.”
 
“You must be mad!” exclaimed the young girl, scarcely above her breath, half-frightened, and unable to loose her eyes from the fascination of his.
 
“No, I’m not mad; only you’ve never seen any one in earnest before, and you’ve been condemning me without evidence all along. But it   must stop now. You must tell me what it is, for I have a right to know. T............