"Then why—why do you talk of sending me away?"
"I'm not going to send you away. It is I who have to go. Oh, beloved! I ought never to have come here this evening. But I thought if I might see you—just once again—before I went out into the night, I should at least have that to remember. . . . And then you sang, and it seemed as though you were calling me. . . ."
"Yes," she said very softly. "I called you. I wanted you so." Then, after a moment, with sudden, womanish curiosity: "How did you know I was singing here to-night?"
"Olga told me. She's bitterly opposed to all that I've been doing, but"—smiling faintly—"she has occasional spasms of compassion, when she remembers that, after all, I'm a poor devil who's being thrust out of paradise."
"She loves you," Diana answered simply. "I think she has loved you—better—than I did, Max. But not more!" she added jealously. "No one could love you more, dear."
After a pause, she asked:
"I suppose Olga told you that I know—everything?"
"Yes. I'm glad you know"—quietly. "It makes it easier for me to tell you why I must go away—out of your life."
She leaned nearer to him, her hands on his shoulders.
"Don't go!" she whispered. "Ah, don't go!"