When at length he released her, all her reserves were down.
"Max . . . Max . . . I love you!"
The confession fell from her lips with a timid, exquisite abandon. He
was her mate and she recognised it. He had conquered her.
Presently he put her from him, very gently, but decisively.
"Diana, heart's dearest, there is something more--something I have not
told you yet."
She looked at him with sudden apprehension in her eyes.
"Max! . . . Nothing--nothing that need come between us?"
Memories of the past, of all the incomprehensible episodes of their
acquaintance--his refusal to recognise her, his reluctance to accept
her friendship--came crowding in upon her, threatening the destruction
of her new-found happiness.
"Not if you can be strong--not if you'll trust me." He looked at her
searchingly.
"Trust you? But I do trust you. Should I have . . . Oh, Max!" the
warm colour dyed her face from chin to brow--"Could I love you if I
didn't trust you?"
There was a tender, almost compassionate expression in his eyes as he
answered, rather sadly:--
"Ah, my dear, we don't know what 'trust' really means until we are
called upon to give it. . . . And I want so much from you!"
Diana slipped her hand confidently into his.
"Tell me," she said, smiling at him. "I don't think I shall fail you."
He was silent for a while, wondering if the next words he spoke would
set them as far apart as though the previous hour had never been.
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