"Lady," said she in her rich, soft voice, and speaking with careful deliberation, "Peregrine has not told you—all. Please look at me—my dress—"
"Very pretty, I think, and quaint—like a gipsy's—"
"I am a gipsy, lady—one Peregrine met by the roadside! 'T is best you should know this—first—before—before—"
The soft, sweet voice faltered and stopped and there fell a silence, a long, tense moment wherein I held my breath, I think, and was conscious of the heavy beating of my heart, but with every throb I loved and honoured Diana the more. Slowly and gently Barbara loosed her husband's clasping arm and rose to her knees.
"Now—I must kiss you, Diana!" she said.
"O lady!" sighed Diana.
"Barbara, my dear! Barbara ever and always!"
"Barbara!" murmured Diana. And then they were in each other's arms and Anthony was on his feet and tucking his arm in mine led me where the horses stood tethered, with such disconnected mutterings as:
"Come away, Perry—true blue, 'egad—leave 'em together—angels of heaven both—too good for me—or even you—not a doubt of it—"
"Agreed!" quoth I.