"Yes."
He sat silent for a moment, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair, those strong flexible fingers which an hour ago had done such magical feats of surgery. Bettina's eyes were held by them.
"I hardly know how to begin; it has to do with—Diana."
"Diana?"
"I love her, dear——"
"Diana?" Bettina spoke, breathlessly. "Oh, and does she love you—Anthony?"
"I have always loved her—but I thought I had lost her—then when she came back from Europe I found that she was still free—and that—she cared. But by that time I had engaged myself to a dear child who really didn't love me at all."
"But why didn't you tell me, Anthony?"
"Because, my dear, I thought you might be made unhappy."
To others there might have seemed something humorous in the situation—in its almost farcical complications and misunderstandings. But these two saw none; the issues were too deep, too serious; death was too near in that upper room.