Presently he turned back to her, and she gathered from his expression that he had come to a decision. In the moment that elapsed before he spoke she had time to be aware of a sudden, almost breathless anxiety, and instinctively she let her lids fall over her eyes lest he should read and understand the apprehension in them.
"Diana."
His voice came gently and gravely to her ears. With an effort she looked up and found him regarding her with eyes from which all the old ironical mockery had fled. They were very steady and kind—kinder than she had ever believed it possible for them to be. Her throat contracted painfully, and she stretched out her hand quickly, pleadingly, like a child.
He took it between both his, holding it with the delicate care one accords a flower, as though fearful of hurting it.
"Diana, I'm going to accept—what you offer me. Heaven knows I've little right to! There are . . . worlds between you, and me. . . . But if a man dying of thirst in the desert finds a pool—a pool of crystal water—is he to be blamed if he drinks—if he quenches his thirst for a moment? He knows the pool is not his—never can he his. And when the rightful owner comes along—why, he'll go away, back to the loneliness of the desert again. But he'll always remember that his lips have once drunk from the pool—and been refreshed."
Diana spoke very low and wistfully.
"He—he must go back to the desert?"
Errington bent his head.
"He must go back," he answered. "The gods have decreed him outcast from life's pleasant places; he is ordained to wander alone—always."
Diana drew her hand suddenly away from his, and the hasty movement knocked over the little silver salt-cellar on the table, scattering the salt on the cloth between them.