And she had not given him all her soul. She had kept back that supreme
belief in the beloved which is an integral part of love. But now, now
she would go to him and give with both hands royally--faith and trust,
blindly, as love demanded.
She smiled a little. Happiness and the haven of Max's arms seemed very
near her just then.
She was very silent as she and Olga Lermontof drove home together from
the Embassy, but just at the last, when the limousine stopped at
Baroni's house, she leaned closer to Olga in the semi-darkness, and
whispered a little breathlessly:--
"I'm going back to him, Olga."
Somehow the mere putting of it into words seemed to give it substance,
convert it into an actual fact that could be talked about, just like
the weather, or one's favourite play, or any other commonplace matter
which can be spoken of because it has a knowledgeable existence. And
the Russian's quick "Thank God!" set the seal of assuredness upon it.
"Yes--thank God," answered Diana simply.
The car, which was to take the accompanist on to Brutton Square,
slipped away down the lamp-lit street, and Diana fled upstairs to her
room.
She must be alone--alone with her thoughts. She no longer dreaded the
night and its quiet solitude. It was a solitude pervaded by a deep,
abiding peace, the anteroom of happiness.
To-morrow she would go to Max, and tell him that love had taught her
belief and faith--all that he had asked of her and that she had so
failed to give.
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