"I mean yours, Diana?"
"Mine? Why, I gave you something better than that," she began gaily. Then her face altered; she fell silent, watching him—at first incredulous, then a little dazed.
"Didn't you know that I loved you?" he said.
"You mean—last summer.... Yes."
"Now! Didn't you know it?"
"I—no."
Far in the chaos of her brain she heard his words echoing, reëchoing in confused reiteration.
He was saying, slowly: "There has never been a moment since that day that my life has not been yours—that you have not possessed my heart, my mind, filled them, owned them, overwhelmingly inspired me with love and adoration for you alone. What I am, and will be, I am, and shall be by grace of you.
"But gratitude is not the love of man for woman; it is not even part of it; it is a separate passion—a shrine by itself. I worship you there in my own fashion.
"But you, Diana—Japonette—" He flung one arm around her body. She placed a firm hand on his wrist as though to break the clasp, looked at him, and began to tremble.