"And this—strange love of yours, Peregrine, that I feared dead, has come to life again because you know at last how cruelly you misjudged me—you are here because you have found out?"
"I have found out nothing."
"Then—oh—why, then, you still think evil of me?"
"I love you!" said I, leaning towards her, for she had drawn from me a little. "I love you—more than ever, I think, yes, indeed it must be so—because I am here to shield you with my care—to make you my wife."
"Wife?" she whispered, shrinking yet farther from me. "Your wife? You would marry me in my—vileness—doubting my honour?"
"Your honour shall be mine, henceforth."
Now at this she sat back to regard me beneath wrinkled brows; once her scarlet mouth quivered, though whether she would weep or no I knew not, but before the sweet directness of her eyes I felt strangely abashed and knew again that old consciousness of futility.
"O Peregrine," she sighed at last, "how very—foolishly blind you are, how hopelessly masculine, and how nobly generous—my proud gorgio gentleman!" And stooping, she caught my hand ere I knew and kissed it passionately.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed, very ill at ease. "Why do—so?"
"Because—oh, my dear—because you would stoop to lift your poor, stained Diana from the depths and cover her shame with your love! Because, thinking me vile, you would still honour me with your name. Oh, my Peregrine, you love me more—much more than I ever dared hope—better than even you know!" And rising, she gave herself to my eager arms.