"Oh, you are unfair to me—cruelly unfair! You ask me to trust you!
And your very asking implies that you cannot trust me!"
There was bitter anger in her voice.
"I know it looks like that," he said wearily. "And I can't explain. I can only ask you to believe in me and trust me. I thought . . . perhaps . . . you loved me enough to do it." His mouth twitched with a little smile, half sad, half ironical. "My usual presumption, I suppose."
She made no answer, but after a moment asked abruptly:—
"Does this—this secret concern only you?"
"That I cannot tell you. I can't answer any questions. If—if you come to me, it must be in absolute blind trust." He paused, his eyes entreating her. "Is it . . . too much to ask?"
Diana was silent, looking away from him across the water. The sun slipped behind a cloud, and a grey shadow spread like a blight over the summer sea. It lay leaden and dull, tufted with little white crests of foam.
The man and woman stood side by side, motionless, unresponsive. It was as though a sword had suddenly descended, cleaving them asunder.
Presently she heard him mutter in a low tone of anguish:—
"So this—this, too—must be added to the price!"