He and Alice were strolling about the gardens of the hotel; she had not wished to get too far away from the sheltering Warrens, and there Preston was making what he assured her was his last appeal.
She, however, preferred to view his condition of mind and heart in a psychological rather than a sentimental way.
"It is a habit, an obsession," she asseverated, tilting her rose-lined parasol toward the sun so that charming pink reflections fell upon her face. "You have lost sight of the object in the zest of pursuit. It is the game which absorbs you, believe me. The winning would disconcert you. Yes, it's the game. I am convinced that you have lost sight of the goal and all that it entails."
Mr. Preston merely looked at her. "It entails you," he replied simply.
"It entails a great deal more," her speech was as quick as his was slow. "You are, you tell me, exactly thirty-three years old. I, Alice Wilstead," she shut her lips and breathed hard a moment and then gallantly took the fence, "am just thirty-eight."
Not by even the flicker of an eyelash did he show either surprise or dismay. Alice's heart went out to him. She really adored his impassivity; it was so unlike anything she was capable of.
"What has that got to do with my loving you and your loving me?" asked Preston stolidly.
"Everything," she answered deeply, regarding with drooping eyes and wistful mouth a great, fragrant rose which she held between her fingers. "If we could but hold this moment, if neither of us would know further change, why--"
"Then you admit that you could care for me, that you do care for me," he exclaimed with brightening eyes.
"Let it remain at 'could' and 'might,'" with one of her swift smiles. "But under any circumstances, I do not wish to marry any one. Look at my admirable position, rich, free, supposedly attractive, young--a widow, you know, is always a good five or six years younger than either a married or an unmarried woman. One is regarded as a young widow until one is quite an elderly person. Now, really, why should I marry?"
"There isn't any possible reason," agreed Mr. Preston unhappily, "unless you love me, and then there is every reason. But are you not tired walking up and down, up and down these paths? Shall we not sit down on this seat a few minutes?"