"I don't want to say the only thing I want to say. I don't want to say it here. Won't you go home and let me come and tell you at Long Barton?"
"You do think me horrid. Why don't you say so?"
"No. I don't."
"Then it's because you don't care what I am or what I do. I thought a man's friendship didn't mean much!" She crushed the fern into a rough ball and threw it over the edge of the rock.
"Oh, hang it all," said Temple. "Look here, Miss Desmond. I came away from Paris because I didn't know what was the matter with me. I didn't know who it was I really cared about. And before I'd been here one single day, I knew. And then I met you. And I haven't said a word, because you're here alone--and besides I wanted you to get used to talking to me and all that. And now you say I don't care. No, confound it all, it's too much! I wanted to ask you to marry me. And I'd have waited any length of time till there was a chance for me." He had almost turned his back on her, and leaning his chin on his elbow was looking out over the tree-tops far below. "And now you've gone and rushed me into asking you now, when I know there isn't the least chance for me,--and anyhow I ought to have held my tongue! And now it's all no good, and it's your fault. Why did you say I didn't care?"
"You knew it was coming," Betty told herself, "when he asked if he might come to Long Barton to see you. You knew it. You might have stopped it. And you didn't. And now what are you going to do?"
What she did was to lean back to reach another fern--to pluck and smooth its fronds.
"Are you very angry?" asked Temple forlornly.
"No," said Betty; "how could I be? But I wish you hadn't. It's spoiled everything."
"Do you think I don't know all that?"
"I wish I could," said Betty very sincerely, "but--"
"Of course," he said bitterly. "I knew that."
"He doesn't care about me," said Betty: "he's engaged to someone else."
"And you care very much?" He kept his face turned away.
"I don't know," said Betty; "sometimes I think I'm getting not to care at all."