"You—you knew it, then?"
"Of course!" she nodded again. "So did Jerry—so did Jessamy, so did your tall uncle—and your aunt, I think, and—and everybody else in all the world—except yourself, Peregrine."
"Blind fool that I was—"
"No, Peregrine, it was because you never guessed, that I didn't run away—"
"And you never will now, Diana, because you are mine, But I loved the sweet, pure soul of you first and so, my Diana, although I am longing—longing to kiss you—those dear gentle eyes, your red lips—I never will until you give them, because my love, being very great, is very humble, like—like this!" And sinking to my knees, I would have kissed the hem of her gown, but with a soft, sweet cry of reproach, she slipped to her knees also and swaying to me, hid her face in my breast.
"O Peregrine," she murmured, looking up at me through a mist of tears, "it is a wonderful thing to be loved by a gentleman—"
"Then God keep me so!" I whispered.
"He will, Peregrine, so long as you are Peregrine—kiss me!" And so for a deathless moment I held her close, to kiss her tumbled hair, her tearful eyes, the tremor of her sweet mouth.
"Peregrine—dear," she sighed, "at first I hated love and when it came it frighted me and then, when it came to you and you not knowing, I knew love could only be a dream 'twixt you and me and so I—I tried to make you hate me—I talked and acted rough—as much as I could, or—or very nearly—but I couldn't keep it up all the time, it hurt me so—"
"Then," cried I, "why then, you do love me, heart and soul, Diana?"