But it would hardly have been Diana to sit demurely and listen to his outpouring, now that he might speak and she might hear. It was far more natural that the very certainty of everything should make her feel contrary and want to tantalise him; particularly when, after his first question had been answered with a quiet affirmative, he plunged into the subject filling his heart without any preliminary, and with all that quick enthusiasm of his bursting its bounds.
"Then we need not say any more about it. Why should we?... There is only you and I now. It seems for the moment as if there were no one else in the entire universe. But I want the answer to that other question of mine"; and he leaned near to her, with his whole attitude a sort of inspired interrogation.
"What question?..." A shade of lightness had crept into Diana's voice; the shadow of a smile into her eyes. She felt on the verge of being a little unnerved, and a feigned or real inconsequence was ever her refuge.
"The question you were not willing to answer yesterday, and which I told you I should ask again to-day. You said that you had asked me what I thought of a man who married a woman when he did not love her. And I said that was not what you had asked. Do you remember the original question, or must I tell you what it was?"
"I don't remember anything about it. I'm afraid I'm rather given to asking questions."
"That means I must tell you. Diana, what you asked me was, what did I think of a man who married one woman and loved another? Now, I want to know how and when you discovered that I loved another?..."
"It was the obvious conclusion"—studying the toe of her smart riding-boot with exaggerated interest. "Otherwise you must have loved Meryl; you could not help it."
"I see." The smile dawned in his eyes now. "And was it equally obvious who the other woman was?"
She glanced away to hide her tell-tale mouth. "It might have been if it had interested me."
"But, of course, it didn't?..." and he laughed a low, happy laugh.