"Who is that one?"
"Loose me, now," she pleaded. "You'll make me cry in a minute, and I
hates to cry." So I obeyed her and sitting up, saw that Diogenes, like
the four-footed philosopher he was, had come to a halt and was
serenely cropping the grass by the roadside. And so we presently drove
on again, but though Diana frowned no more, she persistently avoided
my glance.
"Diana," said I at last, vainly endeavouring to meet her gaze, "who is
the--one man?"
"Him as I shall marry, of course--if I ever do!" she answered.
"Then that man is myself, of course!"
"You are a sight too cocksure!"
"Am I?"
"Yes, and--very rough, I think."
"Oh, forgive me--did I hurt you--just now, when I--"
"You did!"
"Where?"
"Here, on the throat, Peregrine."
"Let me look," said I, peering. Then, "The wound is not apparent,
Diana, unless it is--here!" and leaning closer, I touched her soft
neck with my lips. "Did I hurt you anywhere else?"
"No!" said she hastily and with sudden shy look.
"I could almost regret my gentleness!" I sighed. After this we drove
in silence awhile; that is to say Diogenes ambled along at his own
leisurely gait, as if he very well knew that 'time was made for
slaves'.
So I looked at Diana, drinking in this new, shy beauty of her, and she
looked at earth and sky, at hedgerow and rolling meadow but with never
a glance at me.
"It was wrong of you to think the gentleman kissed me!" said she
suddenly, beginning to frown.
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