She awaited him still sitting on the bench and striving vainly to quiet her thumping heart.  She heard him come lightly up behind her, but she did not turn her head though she had no tears to conceal.  She was possessed by an insane desire to spring up and flee.  It took all her resolution to remain where she was.

And so Nick drew near unwelcomed ­a lithe, alert figure in European attire, bare-headed, eager-faced.  He was smiling to himself as he came, but when he reached her the smile was gone.

He bent and looked into her white, downcast face; then laid his hand upon her shoulder.

“But Muriel ­” he said.

And that was all.  Yet Muriel suddenly hid her face and wept.

He did not attempt to restrain her.  Perhaps he realised that tears such as those must have their way.  But the touch of his hand was in some fashion soothing.  It stilled the tempest within her, comforting her inexplicably.

She reached up at last, and drew it down between her own, holding it fast.

“I’m such a fool, Nick,” she whispered shakily.  “You ­you must try to bear with me.”

She felt his fingers close and gradually tighten upon her own until their grip was actual pain.

“Haven’t I borne with you long enough?” he said.  “Can’t you come to the point?”

She shook her head slightly.  Her trembling had not wholly ceased.  She was not ­even yet she was not ­wholly sure of him.

“Afraid?” he questioned.

And she answered him meekly, with bowed head.  “Yes, Nick; afraid.”

“Don’t you think you might look me in the face if you tried very hard?” he suggested.

“No, Nick.”  She almost shrank at the bare thought.

“Oh, but you haven’t tried,” he said.

His voice sounded very close.  She knew he was bending down.  She even fancied she could feel his breath upon her neck.

Her head sank a little lower.  “Don’t!” she whispered, with a sob.

“What are you afraid of?” he said.  “You weren’t afraid to send me a message.  You weren’t afraid to save my life last night.  What is it frightens you?”

She could not tell him.  Only her panic was very real.  It shook her from head to foot.  A fierce struggle was going on within her, ­the last bitter conflict between her love and her fear.  It tore her in all directions.  She felt as if it would drive her mad.  But through it all she still clung desperately to the bony hand that grasped her own.  It seemed to sustain her, to hold her up, through all her chaos of doubt, of irresolution, of miserable, overmastering dread.

“What is it frightens you?” he said again.  “Why won’t you look at me?  There is nothing whatever to make you afraid!”

He spoke softly, as though he were addressing a scared child.  But still she was afraid, afraid of the very impulse that urged her, horribly afraid of meeting the darting scrutiny of his eyes.

He waited for a little in silence; then suddenly with a sharp sigh he straightened himself.  “You don’t know your own mind yet,” he said.  “And I can’t help you to know it.  I had better go.”

He would have withdrawn his hand with the words, but she held it fast.

“No, Nick, no!  It isn’t that,” she told him tremulously.  “I know what I want ­perfectly well.  But ­but ­I can’t put it into words.  I can’t!  I can’t!”

“Is that it?” said Nick.  His manner changed completely.  He bent down again.  She heard the old note of banter in his voice, but mingled with it was a tenderness so utter that she scarcely recognised it.  “Then, my dear girl, in Heaven’s name, don’t try!  Words were not made for such an occasion as this.  They are clumsy tools at the best of times.  You can make me understand without words.  I’m horribly intelligent, as you remarked just now.”

Her heart leapt to the rapid assurance.  Was it so difficult to tell him after all?  Surely she could find a way!

The tumult of her emotions swelled to sudden uproar, thunderous, all-possessing, overwhelming, so that she gasped and gasped again for breath.  And then all in a moment she knew that the conflict was over.  She was as a diver, hurling with headlong velocity from dizzy height into deep waters, and she rejoiced ­she exulted ­in that mad rush into depth.

With a quivering laugh she moved.  She loosened her convulsive clasp upon his hand, turned it upwards, and stooping low, she pressed her lips closely, passionately, lingeringly, upon his open palm.  She had found a way.

He started sharply at her action; he almost winced.  Then, “Muriel!” he exclaimed in a voice that broke, and threw himself on his knees beside her, holding her fast in a silence so sudden and so tense that she also was awed into a great stillness.

Yet, after a little, though his face was pressed against her so that she could not see it or even vaguely guess his mood, she found strength to speak.

“I can tell you what I want now, Nick,” she whispered.  “Shall I tell you?”

He did not answer, did not so much as breathe.  But yet she knew no fear or hesitancy.  Her eyes were opened, and her tongue loosed.  Words came easily to her now, more easily than they had ever come before.

“I want to be married ­soon, very soon,” she told him softly.  “And then I want you to take me away with you into Nepal, as you planned ever so long ago.  And let us be alone together in the mountains ­quite alone as we were before.  Will you, Nick?  Will you?”

But again he had no answer for her.  He did not seem able to reply.  His head still lay against her shoulder.  His arm was still tense about her.  She fell silent, waiting for him.

At last he drew a deep breath that seemed to burst upwards from the very heart of him, and lifted his face with a jerk.

“My God!” he said.  “Is it true?”

His voice was oddly uneven; he seemed to produce it with difficulty.  But having broken the spell that bound him, he managed after a moment to continue.

“Are you quite sure you want to marry me, ­quite sure that to-morrow you won’t be scared out of your wits at the bare idea?  Have you left off being afraid of me?  Do you mean me really to take you at your word?”

“If you will, Nick,” she answered humbly.

“If I will!” he echoed, with sudden passion.  “I warn you, Muriel, you are putting yourself irrevocably in my power, and you will never break away again.  You may come to loathe me with your whole soul, but I shall never let you go.  Have you realised that?  If I take you now, I take you for all time.”

He spoke almost with violence, and, having spoken, drew back from her abruptly, as though he could not wholly trust himself.

But nothing could dismay her now.  She had fought her last battle, had made the final surrender.  Her fear was dead.  She stretched out her hands to him with unfaltering confidence.

“Take me then, Nick,” she said.

He took the extended hands with quick decision, first one and then the other, and laid them on his shoulders.

“Now look at me,” he said.

She hesitated, though not as one afraid.

“Look at me, Muriel!” he insisted.

Then, as she kept her eyes downcast, he put his hand under her chin and compelled her.

She yielded with a little quivering murmur of protest, and so for the first time in her life she deliberately met his look, encountering eyes so wide and so piercingly blue that she had a moment’s bewildered feeling of uncertainty, as though she had looked into the eyes of a stranger.  Then the colourless lashes descended again and veiled them as of old.  He blinked with his usual disconcerting rapidity and set her free.

“Yes,” he said.  “You’ve left off cheating.  And if you really care to marry me ­what’s left of me ­it’s a precious poor bargain, but ­I am yours.”

His voice cracked a little.  She fancied he was going to laugh.  And then, while she was still wondering, his arm went round her again and drew her closely to him.  She was conscious of a sudden, leaping flame behind the pale lashes, felt his hold tighten while the wrinkled face drew near, ­and with a sob she clasped her arms about his neck and turned her lips to his.