For a moment she kept her face hidden, trying to steady herself, but at last she turned towards him, and in her eyes was a soft shining—a strange, sweet fire.
"Max!" The whispered name was hardly audible; tremulous and wistful it seemed to creep across the room.
But he heard it. In a moment his arms were round her, and he had gathered her close against his heart. And so they remained for a space, neither speaking.
Presently Diana lifted her head.
"Max, it was because I loved you so that I was so hard and bitter—only because I loved you so."
"I know," was all he said. And he kissed her hair.
"Do you?"—wistfully. "I wonder if—if a man can understand how a woman can be so cruel to what she loves?"
And as he had no answer to this (since, after all, a man cannot be expected to understand all—or even very much—that a woman does), he kissed her lips.
She crept a little nearer to him.
"Max! Do you still care for me—like that?" There was wonder and thanksgiving in her voice. "Oh, my dear, I'm down in the dust at your feet—I've failed you utterly, wronged you every way. Even if you forgive me, I shall never forgive myself. But I'm—all yours, Max."