His heart yearned over her. She seemed such a little thing in that stately room with its high ceilings, its massive furniture, its book-lined walls. The only light came from the fire, and from a silver lamp which hung over Diana's desk. On the table near Bettina was a bowl of pink hyacinths, which filled the room with the fresh fragrance of spring.
He was conscious of these things, however, only as a setting for her beauty. And he was more than ever conscious of his desire to place himself between her and the world which might hurt her. "Let me help you," he said, earnestly. "Don't you know that my only desire is to serve you?"
She considered him, wistfully. "It's dear of you to say that."
He sat down, leaning toward her.
"It isn't dear of me. It isn't even good of me. It's simply self-preservation. Don't you know, can't you see that I have only one thought—your happiness; only one wish—to be always near you?"
There was no mistaking the significance of his flaming words.
She shrank back. "Oh, you must not say such things."
"Why not?"
"Because. Oh, you called yourself my friend."
"I am more than that," he said, steadily. "I am your lover."