“Will you?” The thought of an hour—or as long as he liked to make it—alone with Diana was a delirious thought—less delirious was the thought of the return journey with Hastings in the boat. Hastings with the glamour of martyrdom upon him would be invulnerable. St. Jermyn said he wasn’t sure that Hastings would like that, and Diana asked why? He would be glad to see her, she knew.
“Without me—yes, but with me? What do you think?”
“Why should he mind?” she asked; then added, “It will be safe for you to go, though?”
If it were not would she mind? he asked her.
She answered, of course, why not? If she had proved herself devoid of humour, it did not show she was heartless.
“I wish I understood you—perhaps if I did I should be even less happy than I am. It’s clearing, I’ll go; any message for him?”
She shook her head—then said: “My humble duty, perhaps—”
“I am glad you did not ask me to take him your love because I should have kept half for myself—but if you would trust it all to me—to give what I like of it to Hastings—”
Diana, interrupting him, said she was tired of jokes. So was he, he vowed: he was in deadly earnest. “By the way—if in earnest I asked you—‘Will you marry me?’ What should you say?”
“I should say—‘Is this a serious proposal?’”