She swayed and he caught her in his arms, holding her, his wasted face changed and lit with joy.
“Diane, I’ve come back to you!” he cried.
She pushed him away from her with both hands and stood, still shaking, supporting herself against the vine-clad trunk of an ancient oak.
“Don’t!” she gasped in a low voice. “You’ve made a mistake—I’m married!”
There was a moment of intense silence. He straightened himself with a shudder, like a man who had been shot but could still keep on his feet.
“You’re married? And your—your husband, Diane—who is he?”
She watched him. She felt as if life itself hung on the look that she would see in his eyes when she answered.
“Arthur Faunce,” she murmured in a low voice.
“Faunce!”
It was a cry of horror, of dismay—she could not mistake that. Overton stood still, a deep color flaming up in his face. He was apparently incapable of speech, but the look in his eyes, as they met hers, was a revelation. It showed neither anger nor jealousy, but only a deep and horrified consternation.