She waited in silence.
Presently he turned back to her, and she gathered from his expression
that he had come to a decision. In the moment that elapsed before he
spoke she had time to be aware of a sudden, almost breathless anxiety,
and instinctively she let her lids fall over her eyes lest he should
read and understand the apprehension in them.
"Diana."
His voice came gently and gravely to her ears. With an effort she
looked up and found him regarding her with eyes from which all the old
ironical mockery had fled. They were very steady and kind--kinder than
she had ever believed it possible for them to be. Her throat
contracted painfully, and she stretched out her hand quickly,
pleadingly, like a child.
He took it between both his, holding it with the delicate care one
accords a flower, as though fearful of hurting it.
"Diana, I'm going to accept--what you offer me. Heaven knows I've
little right to! There are . . . worlds between you, and me. . . .
But if a man dying of thirst in the desert finds a pool--a pool of
crystal water--is he to be blamed if he drinks--if he quenches his
thirst for a moment? He knows the pool is not his--never can he his.
And when the rightful owner comes along--why, he'll go away, back to
the loneliness of the desert again. But he'll always remember that his
lips have once drunk from the pool--and been refreshed."
Diana spoke very low and wistfully.
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