"You are going to London early to see your lawyer," she said, "on the subject that you wrote to father about."
"I am."
"That is why I must speak to you to-night. I dare not wait." Her eyes fell before the stern intentness of his. Her voice faltered a moment, and then went on. "John, don't go. It is not necessary. Don't grieve me by leaving Overleigh, or—changing your name."
A great bitterness welled up in John's heart against the woman he loved—the bitterness which sooner or later few men escape, of realizing how feeble is a woman's perception of what is honourable or dishonourable in a man.
"Ah, Di," he said, "you are very generous. But do not let us speak of it again. Such a thing could not be."
He took her hand, but she withdrew it instantly.
"John," she said with dignity, "you misunderstand me. It would be a poor kind of generosity in me to offer what it is impossible for you to accept. You wound me by thinking I could do such a thing. I only meant to ask you to keep your present name and home for a little while, until—they both will become yours again by right—the day when—you marry me."
A beautiful colour had mounted to Di's face. John's became white as death.
"Do you love me?" he said hoarsely, shaking from head to foot.
"Yes," she replied, trembling as much as he.