Boston, arrived before his master, sprawled at Diane’s feet, and she was gazing before her at the moonlight coming up in waves from the horizon, flooding all the land with cold silver light. Something colder than the moonlight gripped the man’s heart for a moment, but he held out his hands to her and spoke her name as though he had nothing to fear. She stood up quickly and put out her hands too—but with a difference; in her gesture there was a subtle suggestion of defence, of warding off something—and when he would have taken them in his, she drew back.
“No, Marie—not yet—there is something you must tell me—”
He stared at her. She was deadly pale, but the moon itself was not more composed, and her eyes had the same steady glance as his own. Her question was spoken in a very low voice.
“Were you ever in love with—another man’s wife?”
His face darkened. Prepared as he was, the unexpected form of her question took him unawares. He had anticipated something to which he could give a firm, clear denial—but to this, what could he say, who had so much on his conscience!
“You ... listening to scandal, Diane!” he said at last, and the reproach in his voice reached home. She faltered a moment, not answering at once, and they stood looking at each other, less like lovers than two duellists measuring each other’s strength.
“I will believe anything you tell me, Marie,” she said gently, at last; “I ask nothing better than to hear that it is only scandal.”
He could not afford to hesitate any longer.
“If you are referring to my friendship with Mrs de Rivas, I may say that in that at least I am innocent. Her husband neglected her; I was sorry for her; our so-called friendship was a concerted plan to bring him to his senses, and it worked like magic. They are now extremely happy.”
But he had waked something new in Diane Heywood; she looked into his eyes with the cold curiosity of a child.