"Oh, but I won't! Who are you to question me so?"
"Tell me, or by God I'll make you!"
"Ah, don't talk, you couldn't—no, not if—" I seized her, wrenched and swung her down across my knees (careless alike in my sudden frenzy of fallen reins, of danger or death itself) and having her thus helpless, set my hand about her soft, round throat.
"By God!" I gasped, "but you shall tell me, Diana; you shall tell me if he dared sully you with his vile touch—speak—speak!"
And now as I glared down at her I saw her eyes grow wide and suddenly fearful.
"Oh, Peregrine," she whispered. "Don't—don't look at me so—as if you hated me—don't, ah, don't!" And then, oh, wonder of wonders! Her arms were about my neck, drawing me lower and lower until her soft cheek met mine and, clasping me thus, she spoke under her breath:
"He didn't. Peregrine—he didn't! No man shall ever kiss me in line except—just—one!"
"Who?" I questioned, grasping her to me. "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?"