She grew white as death, and stayed stone-still, breathless. Then he looked at her, stood up, and repeated resolutely: 'Rhoda, dearest, will you be my wife?'
She rose to confront him, and brought out her answer:
'No.'
He stared at her a moment in stupid bewilderment.
'You will not be my wife?' he said.
She put out all her strength to make the word clear and absolute, and repeated: 'No.'
His face grew radiant; he caught her in his arms suddenly and kissed her, once, twice.
'O my sister!' he cried, 'my dear sister!'
She did not blush under his kisses: she shut her eyes and held her breath when his eager embrace caught her out of resistance. But when it slackened she thrust him back with all her might, broke free, and with a low cry fled away to find solitude, where she might sob and sob, and wrestle out her agony, and tear her heart with a name—that strange name, that woman's name, 'Diadyomene.'
She had his secret, she only, though it was nought but a name and some love titles and passionate entreaties that his ravings had given into her safe keeping.