"Because of what?" I demanded, grasping a silky handful of her glossy hair. "Why are you so ungracious to me lately; why do you do and say things that you imagine will make me think you hard and unlovely; why do you try to shock me so often?"
"I don't! How?"
"By pretending to be trivial and shallow and commonplace."
"Because I am!"
"Don't blaspheme, Diana. How could you be shallow or commonplace, you who taught me to love the Silent Places? So why attempt things so impossible, dear child?" And taking hold of her smooth, round chin I turned her head that she must look at me. "Why, Diana, why?" I repeated. For a moment she met my look, then her lids fluttered and fell. Yet she stood before me strangely docile.
"Because," said she at last, "you looks at me lately as—as you are doing now, as if—as though—"
"I had only just found out how beautiful you are, Diana? And don't you know why?"
"Yes," she murmured, "but—you don't."
"I have discovered the reason this morning," said I, drawing her a little nearer, "I love you, Diana, I know it at last. Why, good heaven, I must have loved you for days!"
"You have!" she nodded, without looking at me.