On the fifteenth of June he was back again in the “Moulin d’Or.” Diane was already much better. She could hobble about alone with the help of two sticks. She was more bewitching than ever. He stayed three weeks, till her ankle was quite well, and they could go for walks together in the woods. And he called her Diane, and she called him Paul. And one day, as the sun was setting, he flung his arms round her and gasped:
“Diane.... Diane! I love you!”
And he kissed her on the lips, and her roguish eyes searched his.
“Oh, you!” she murmured. “You bad boy ... you!”
“But I love you, Diane. I want you. I can’t live without you. You must come away with me. We will get married. We will build a world of our own. Oh, you beautiful! Tell me you love me, or I shall go mad!”
She laughed that low, gurgling, silvery laugh of hers.
“What are you saying?” she said. “How should I know? I think you are—a nice boy. But I cannot leave my father.”
“My dear, he managed all the time you had to lie with your foot up. Don’t torture me! Oh, you must love me, Diane. I couldn’t love you so much if you didn’t love me a little in return.”
“Perhaps I do,” she said, smiling.